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87 


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The 

Failure of Elisabeth 

BY 

E. FRANCES POYNTER 

Author of “My Little Lady,” Among the Hills,” Etc. 


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THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 






THE 


FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


y ” ^ 

Er FRANCES POYNTER 

AUTHOR OF “ MY LITTLE LADY/V “ twe HILT « A’ FTC. 




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OFCOA^ff^ 

\'e>" cOPYRiGHr 

Jim 19 ,1890 


NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

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Copyright, 1890, 


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THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


CHAPTER I. 

INTRODUCES A LITTLE SCHOOL-GIRL. 

My heroine sits in a brown stuff gown and a brown straw 
hat on board a Rhine boat. She holds a story-book in her 
hand, but it lies half closed in her lap, her finger marking 
the place, whilst she gazes at the rushing river and the 
storied crags before her ; for she is but lately seventeen, it 
is her first journey abroad, and the Rhine has been new- 
made for her to-day. And since it is the heroine of these 
pages who is sitting there before us, it may be well at once, 
as saving further trouble, to enumerate such of her virtues, 
qualities, faults, and accomplishments as may most fitly 
serve to introduce her to the reader. Among the first I 
maybe allowed, perhaps, to reckon the fact that she is but 
seventeen. There is one year only in each mortal’s life 
in which he or she can be seventeen ; and if in the case of 
youths it is apt to be an awkward, bungling, officious year 
in their stumbling progress along the earlier paths of life, 
in respect of maidens there is often a certain innocence of 
motives and ignorance of consequences, a blind and trust- 
ful way of looking at things, that gives them a sort of 
bloom and freshness which in itself may be held a virtue, 
so that one may be sorry that they should presently have 
to be eighteen, nineteen, twenty, and all the years that 
follow. 

My heroine, then, though her cheeks are pale, and no 
one would call her a beauty, has yet this soft youthful 
bloom of seventeen ; she has also (to be more particular) 
charming brown eyes, of an expression at once shy 
and honest, and abundant brown hair, that waves and 
curls a little on her forehead. For accomplishments, she 


4 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


has a smattering of Latin, can read and talk both French 
and German with facility, has studied some twenty or 
thirty problems of geometry, and knows the use of her 
needle and of the globes. As for faults, she seeks them 
out diligently, having had a pious scheme of self-examina- 
tion taught her by worthy school-teachers, which, like a 
good child, she tries to put in practice once a week at 
least ; but never a fault can she find, except that she loves 
reading story-books better than darning stockings, and 
prefers doing disagreeable things to-morrow rather than 
to-day. Nor can all the questions on the Ten Command- 
ments enlighten her more as to her original wickedness, 
which is a great grievance to her, since she has been taught 
that to repent of one’s sins is the first duty of a Christian ; 
and how can one repent of what one cannot discover? 
She says the Lord’s Prayer willingly, and trusts her tres- 
passes will be forgiven, for she forgives everyone who 
injures her ; but at tlie Penitential Psalms sh** s^tumbles, 
though she repeats them as a sacred duty, a,.d tries in 
vain to think herself, with David and St. Paul, the chief 
of sinners. But in regard to this she may have patience, 
since it is a grievance that life will assuredly mend, and 
before the day of her death she will find occasion to chant 
more than one penitential psalm of her own in sadness 
and remorse. For she has the qualities of which saints 
and sinners alike are made, so that it may be an equal 
chance to her life’s end which of the two she will turn out. 
Most likely, like many other daughters of Eve, she will 
hover on between the one and the other, not without many 
human doubts as to where the one begins and the other 
ends. 

Her name is Elisabeth, which should be held another 
virtue in her, since Elisabeth is a name to be liked — 
soft-sounding, and royal and homely both. In stature she 
is of the middle height ; in manner she is diffident and shy 
to the extreme verge of awkardness. She shuns the society 
of her kind, and loves to sit in a corner with her head in a 
romance. Some people think her absolutely stupid ; one 
or two have told her that she is apathetic ; and as she is of 
an age to have a blind trust in the opinion of others, she 
accepts these opinions resignedly. She is sure she is 
apathetic, and she supposes she must be stupid — which 
does notin the least, however, prevent her thinking herself 
extremely clever. But this is not altogether her fault, 
since she finds when she opens a book she has both wits 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


5 


and brain to understand its meaning ; and though she is 
sure she is apathetic, this does not prevent her having a 
great many wild and ardent imaginations about the world 
and what is going on in it. She has never travelled till 
now, and until the other day she did not suppose that she 
ever would. For though she is only seventeen, she has 
learned that life does not always correspond to our wishes, 
and that a large hopefulness often translates itself into a 
large discouragement. But it has entertained her to 
imagine the world as beautiful as she would like it to be, 
and a wonderful place it has lain in her imagination ; for 
everything that is strange and unknown takes extraordinary 
value in her mind, like beads and glass among savages. 


CHAPTER II. 

A LOST PURSE. 

To drop, then, the present tense, which is the less con- 
venient to this narrative that the events it records happened 
some years ago, my heroine, Elisabeth Verrinder, was 
seated on board the Rhine boat one August day, watching 
the flowing river, gazing at the historic crags. For the 
river and the land were for her full of magic ; an enchanted 
land, where the old guitar romance still came tinkling 
down through the ages, and Lorelei might still rise from 
the wave to sing when the air should cool and darken as 
the sun declined behind the mountain-tops. An enchanted 
land ! As the boat glided onwards, Elisabeth — looking, 
looking with all her might — sat divided between ecstasy 
and pain. Here was such stuff as her dreams had been 
made of ; here were vineyards, villages, ruins ; here were 
boats laden with strange people putting off from the shore 
— people with unknown lives she could never know, ap- 
pearing and vanishing again. And here, ah ! here was a 
raft descending from what green haunted rustling forests 
of romance, bound for what far-off shadowy river-city of 
dreams. For ever as the parting stream rushed on either 
side of the boat, Elisabeth’s thoughts followed it. to where 
spires and towers and gables rose, set along an enchanted 
shore against the light of an enchanted sky. All poetry, 
all history, all the centuries, it seemed to her, were lying 
there, a mighty scroll ready to be unrolled if one had but 


6 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


eyes and mind to read it. Ah! heavens, what ecstasy and 
what pain ; what ecstasy that so vast a spectacle should be 
lying there within one’s grasp, as it were ; what pain that 
it should still elude one, if one is but a little dim-eyed, 
stammering school-girl in a brow stuff frock ! 

As Elisabeth half rose from her seat to watch the slow- 
receding raft, her book slipped from her knee to the deck 
of the steamer. Before she could stoop to pick it up, she 
was forestalled. Allow me,” said a gentleman, present- 
ing it to her ; and this unoriginal remark at once recalled 
Elisabeth from her contemplation of the centuries, and 
introduced her, as it introduces the reader, to one of the 
most important personages of this history. 

He was a man of about six-and-thirty, but with an ap- 
pearance of ill-health that made him look older than his 
age ; his face was lined and worn, and of a sickly pallor ; 
his hair, as well as his short carefully trimmed beard and 
mustache was prematurely grizzled. He had an air of 
gravity and kindliness that befitted his clerical attire, his 
soft wide-brimmed felt hat, and long black coat reaching 
nearly to his heels. His voice was mild, and he smiled as 
he presented the book to Elisabeth, who received it covered 
with confusion. For the greater part of her seventeen 
years had been spent within the four walls of a boarding- 
school, strict almost as a convent ; and no dove-like novice, 
reared from infancy by pious nuns, could have a blanker 
ignorance of the world and its ways than had Elisabeth. 
To be spoken to by a stranger thrilled her with emotion ; 
such a thing had hardly ever happened to her before ; that 
the stranger should be a clergyman only tended to com- 
plicate the momentous situation. For in the secluded, 
half-conventual life that, through one cause and another, 
had closed around her until now, clergymen had not been 
altogether as other men to Elisabeth. In that intimate 
struggle to which allusion has been made, to establish the 
particular relation between herself and the visible world 
and the Invisible that she had been taught to regard as 
essential, a struggle which had formed no small part of 
her mental training so far, clergymen (together with the 
Prayer-book and expositions of the Church Catechism) 
had necessarily held a considerable place. They stood — 
that was how she had been taught to look at it ; and 
Elisabeth in those young days believed everything she was 
taught — where she vainly strove to stand in those baffled 
struggles of hers toward the Divine presence and light. 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


7 


How should they be as other men ? The mere supposi- 
tion was illogical. Not a half-fledged curate among them 
but Elisabeth invested with something of distant awe and 
reverence — speaking in an abstract sense, it should be 
understood. For she was often sleepy in church, had no 
great taste for sermons, and knew a bad discourse from 
a good one as well as anybody. But this was an inconsis- 
tency that never disturbed her for a moment ; probably, 
indeed, she was unconscious of it. Her mind was by 
nature receptive rather than critical ; and when her mother- 
wit led her to criticise, she never found it out. 

When her book, therefore, was presented to her by an 
unknown individual, whose dress and air proclaimed him 
to be a clergyman, Elisabeth could at first do nothing but 
color with embarrassment, but presently rallied sufficiently 
to utter a faltering “ Thank you.” 

‘Wou have lost your place, I am afraid,” said the 
stranger. He spoke in a kind, grave voice which im- 
pressed Elisabeth, but also in some measure reassured 
her. 

‘‘ Oh, that is no matter, thank you,” she said, confusedly ; 
‘‘ I have read the book before.” 

“ It is no doubt, then, very amusing,” said her interloc- 
utor, with a smile. May I see what it is ? Ah, one of 
Miss Yonge’s stories. Well, if you never read anything 
worse than Miss Yonge, you will do very well.” 

A pause before Elisabeth replied. “ I have read Walter 
Scott,” she said then, in rather a shamefaced way, and 
one — one or two others.” 

Ah, Walter Scott ! — well,” said the clergyman, folding 
his arms and stretching out his legs, “ I have nothing to 
say against Walter Scott for young people. I believe him 
to be a very harmless writer. He has nothing in common 
with those pernicious novelists who do so much mischief 
in the present day.” 

Elisabeth looked down. She had never been allowed 
to read novels ; but in the course of her nun-like existence 
she had read one or two, nevertheless. If she had a sin 
indeed on her conscience, it was this ; and an honest heart 
impelled her to make the confession. 

“ I have read a few — novels, I mean,” she said. ‘‘ I 
didn't like one of them. I thought it was horrid.” 

“Ah, well, my dear,” said the clergyman in his grave 
persuasive voice, “if you take my advice, you will let 
those things alone^ Stories are all very well as a recre- 


8 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


ation now and then for young people ; but no one is too 
young for the serious duties of life, and such books as I 
was speaking of just now can only lead to idleness or 
worse. 

I dare say," he continued in a moment, as Elisabeth 
did not answer, that you have found that out yourself 
already. Young people, like elder ones, have their own 
duties to perform, though not such important ones, per- 
haps ; they have at least always the duty of learning to 
be good," he concluded, with a smile. 

Elisabeth sat with downcast eyes, reddening with con- 
fusion ; and yet the sort of personal interest implied in 
these remarks filled her with extraordinary happiness. 
As she sat there beneath that serious and kindly eye, she 
felt she was an object of interest. Yes, this grave and 
reverend person, whose voice and manner indicated the 
greatest goodness and a habit of authority, certainly re- 
garded her with interest. 

‘‘ I — I don't know," she said, in rather a choked voice ; 
‘‘ I’m not very good, I know — I should like to be." 

‘‘ Ah, well," said her companion kindly, that is the 
first step, you know, and the last too. All our lives we 
have to go on liking to be good." Then, with a change 
of voice and manner : You are not travelling alone, I 

suppose? You have friends on board, have you not?" 

“1 am alone now," said Elisabeth, in her shy, ill-con- 
sidered manner ; there was a lady who came with me as 
far as Bonn, and put me on board the boat this morning ; 
but she couldn’t coitie any farther, and Aunt Maria — my 
aunt, you know — couldn’t hear of anyone else just now, 
so she thought I might manage myself as far as Schloss- 
berg. I’m going to school there ; I am not going to live 
at school. I’m going to live at a pension my aunt knows 
about ; but I am going to school every day to attend the 
classes." 

A few more questions from her kindly interlocutor, and 
Elisabeth — in somewhat disjointed fashion, it is true — had 
confided to this new friend most of her young history. She 
was an orphan ; her parents had died when she was a 
child, so had her little brother ; and here Elisabeth’s 
mouth quivered, and she turned away her face that it 
might not be seen that her eyes were full of tears. That 
little brother and playfellow — alas, alas ! He had died 
when she was eight years old. She had never spoken his 
name since ; but the thought of him, and the name of him, 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


9 


could not come into her mind without a spasm at her 
throat and a rush of tears to her eyes. He had died, and 
slie had been left alone. Not long afterwards nurse and 
governess had been sent away ; she had gone to a school 
at Richmond, and there she had remained ever since, until 
last midsummer, spending her holidays for the most part 
with her uncle and aunt in London. ‘‘And did she like 
London or Richmond best?” her companion inquired. 
Elisabeth, biting the end of her glove, didn’t know. She 
had liked school best lately ; she had been one of the 
elder girls — almost the eldest. She had not liked it when 
she was little ; the others were not kind to her tlien, and 
she had been very unhappy, so that sometimes she had 
wished herself back with her aunt again. But she was 
not very happy there, either. Her uncle. Colonel Ver- 
rinder, was very kind to her always, but he was often ill, 
and she did not see very much of him. Her aunt — “ I 
don’t think Aunt Maria likes me much,” said Elisabeth, 
looking down at her fingers. 

“ Well, that is perhaps a little your fault, eh ? ” said the 
clergyman, in friendly tones ; “ it generally is — isn’t it ? — 
when people don’t like us.” Then, in compassion possibly 
for Elisabeth’s reddening cheeks: “Have you any cous- 
ins ?” he required. 

“ No ; at home I am alone,” said Elisabeth ; “ but I don’t 
mind that. I like being alone.” 

“And do you like coming abroad ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” said Elisabeth, with an immense breath — 
“ better than anything in the world. I never thought I 
should come abroad.” 

“Why, how is that ?” said her companion ; “does your 
aunt never go abroad ? ” 

“Oh, yes, often ; but she has never taken me. It was 
because I should like it so much that I thought it would 
never happen. I never expect pleasant things to happen 
to me.” 

Her companion did not at once answer. To my heroine 
these ten minutes of confidence had been full of the most 
palpitating emotion. Elisabeth had long been an object 
of extreme interest to herself, but never before — never — 
had she been able to feel herself as she did now, of special 
interest to someone else. Naturally, the occasion was 
momentous. But to the clergyman these ten minutes had 
been merely such minutes of passing and kindly intercourse 
as he would have held with the first-comer in his parish. 


10 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


That unimportant page in the world’s history that called 
itself Elisabeth’s life had not impressed him deeply, as, 
indeed, why should it ? A page inscribed with fewer char- 
acters could hardly have been presented to him. The air 
blew somewhat chilly from the river, and rising, he wrapped 
a black and white plaid round his shoulders, and began to 
pace up and down the deck. He walked rather slowly 
and feebly, hardly lifting his feet from the ground. His 
movements, no less than the lines of suffering in his face, 
were those of an invalid. Elisabeth, sitting still in her 
place, watched him with an interest that entirely diverted 
her mind for the moment from the Rhine and the guitar 
romance of the ages. Presently he came and sat down 
again. 

“You are going to Schlossberg,” he said. “Perhaps, 
then, we may meet again later on. I expect to spend a 
good part of the winter there. I am ordered by my doc- 
tor to winter abroad.” 

“Oh, are you ill ?” said Elisabeth, quickly and shyly.. 

“ Not ill — only a little overworked,” he answered ; “and 
a thorough change has been recommended to me. So we 
may, perhaps, meet again. Not just at present, though, 
for I don’t go to Schlossberg for some weeks, and I am 
going to land now at Bingen. You, I suppose, go on to 
Mayence.” 

“ Yes,” said Elisabeth ; “ I am to take the train there. I 
have it all written down, and my through-ticket, in my 
purse.” 

She put her hand into the pocket of her dress as she 
spoke, but withdrew it after a moment with an air of alarm. 
A little hand-bag stood on the bench at her side. She 
opened and searched it throughout, then felt again in her 
pocket with an ever-increasing expression of dismay. 
With an absolutely scared look at last, she turned to her 
companion : 

“ Oh ! ” she said, “ I have lost my purse ! ” 

He had not for the moment been attending to her. The 
boat was nearing Bingen, and he had been engaged in 
strapping up his rug. Now he turned round. 

“Your purse?” he said. “Dear me, that is very awk- 
ward ! Had you much money in it ? ” 

“ Everything,” said Elisabeth, the tears in her eyes ; “my 
through-ticket and everything. Oh, what am I to do ? ” 

She made another desperate search in her pocket and 
bag, and under the adjacent chairs and benches, with the 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


II 


same result as before. She looked up helplessly with fall- 
ing tears, trying to check a sob. 

“ Oh, what shall I do?” she said. “What will Aunt 
Maria say ? She told me to be so careful of my purse and 
my keys, and I don’t know what to do or how I am to get 
on.” 

“ Perhaps you have dropped it somewhere on board,” 
said her companion, with some attempt at consolation. 
“We will look about, and inquire whether it has been 
found.” 

They walked along the deck together, inquiring here 
and there, without success. At last Elisabeth stood still. 

“ I know now,” she said, in a quavering .voice, “ where I 
must have lost it. The last time I had it was just before I got 
into the boat at Bonn. I paid the porter who had brought 
down my luggage. I thought I put it in my pocket 
again, but it must have slipped down the fold of my dress. 
I heard something fall, I remember ; but there was a 
crowd, and we were in a hurry, and I was so sure it was 
safe ” 

And here Elisabeth, breaking down altogether, turned 
away her head to hide the rush of her tears. 

The boat was nearing Bingen ; the passengers for that 
place were collecting their property, and Elisabeth’s friend, 
with one hand on his travelling-bag, was giving a some- 
what divided attention to her words. The steamer was 
close to the landing ; in another minute it would stop. 

“My dear,” he said, “that was not very careful of you, 
was it ? And now what can I do for you before I land ? 
Shall I speak to the captain and ask him to look after 
you?” 

“Oh,” said Elisabeth, in dismay, “are you going to 
land ? Are you going away ? I don’t know what I shall 
do. I have no ticket or anything.” 

“ Do you mean you have no more money at all ? ” said 
the clergyman. 

“ No, none at all. The lady I was with paid my hotel 
bill last night, and Aunt Maria gave me my through-ticket 
and ten shillings besides. She said I shouldn’t want any 
more just for feeing the porters, as I shall have no expen- 
ses after I get to Schlossberg. And now I have nothing 
left — nothing. It was all in my purse.” 

Her new acquaintance was silent for a minute ; then 
slowly, with an air of deliberation, he drew out a pocket- 
book. 


12 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


I suppose/’ he said, with an air of rather severe kind- 
ness, that chilled the guilty Elisabeth to the heart, ‘‘ the 
best thing will be for me to lend you some money to take you 
to your journey’s end. You can return it to me when I 
come to Schlossberg, or I will write and let you know my 
address. Let me see, you will need your boat and train 
fare from Bonn to Schlossberg, I suppose, and a shilling 
or two extra for the porters. You will be careful of this, if 
I give it to you, will you not, my dear ? ” 

Yes, oh, yes ! ” said Elisabeth, trembling. I am so 
sorry ” 

Well, well, it is your first journey, I suppose,” said her 
companion, relenting a little. You will learn by expe- 
rience, no doubt. Now, let us see,” he went on opening 
his pocket-book. Dear, dear, I have no change, I see ; 
none at all — only two marks, which will be of no use, and 
a hundred-mark note. What is to be done ?” 

‘‘ Can I get you some change ? ” said Elisabeth, wistfully. 
“ I’ll run and ask the captain.” 

*^No, no,” said the clergyman, with an air of vexation ; 
there is no time. I must go on shore at once, I see, if I 
don’t wish to be left behind. My dear, if I trust this note 
to you, will you be very careful of it ? You won’t want it 
nearly all, you know. You had better get it changed at 
once, and put what you don’t want in your bag.” 

‘‘Yes, yes ; oh, thank you ! ” said Elisabeth. 

“And here is my card, with my name and English ad- 
dress — stop there, you fellow, what are you doing with my 
bag ? — I must be off, my dear ; I will write to you. What 
is your address at Schlossberg? Pension Elder — What is 
your name, by the bye ?” 

“ Elisabeth Verrinder,” she answered ; and as her new 
acquaintance disappeared in the crowd on the little pier 
she looked down at the visiting-card she held, together 
with the hundred-mark bank-note in her hand. 

“Rev^* Robert Holland, The Vicarage, Thornton Briars,” 
was what she read. 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


13 


CHAPTER III. 

A JOURNEY TOWARD THE UNKNOWN. 

If an impression be left on the mind of the reader by 
the events recorded in the preceding chapter, that my 
heroine, because she was careless, was incapable, and help- 
less because she was diffident, I may at once hasten to re- 
move it. Elisabeth, abandoned to her own resources, had 
as fair a capacity for making her way through the practi- 
cal details and difficulties of life as most people. It is 
true she sometimes made mistakes, and had some skill, as 
has been seen, in losing her property ; but she was also 
endowed with a very sufficient spirit of energy, and a fear 
of being put in the wrong which so often passes for cour- 
age, that it may as well be written down as courage at once. 
Finding herself then, alone, with more on her hands in the 
way of arrangements for her journey than she had antici- 
pated, she nevertheless comported herself after a discreet 
and creditable fashion. She changed her hundred-mark note, 
bought her tickets, and in due course found herself seated 
in the appointed train that was to bear her to the ancient 
town of Schlossberg. Her brief storm of difficulties was 
safely weathered ; she had forgotten then in a moment as 
the train sped onward to unknown regions through the 
warm August night, with the mild summer stars shining 
overhead. For the sun had sunk on this day, set in the 
midst of a million of days to stir one fresh eager young 
heart to rapture, and the night was thick with stars, though 
behind the hills a faint white light betrayed the near rising 
of the moon. Strange rapture of the unknown ! Elizabeth, 
leaning from her carriage window, tastes it to the full. 
Oh, heavens ! those lights shining for a moment from in- 
visible lives, shining and disappearing again into the dark- 
ness as the train plunges onward through the night ; those 
solemn hills rising dimly against the solemn stars ; those 
breaths of an alien air, bearing brief snatches of an alien 
tongue ; and then the hollow thunder of a bridge, the 
gleam of a broad river, touched here and there with tremu- 
lous fires, with the darkling sky trembling down in quiv- 
ering breadths of light. And before her all the time, that 
vaster, more mysterious Unknown, toward which the 
train is rushing to free her from a past informed, indeed, 


14 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


with too little love, with too much sorrow and constraint 
for so young a thing. A diffident spirit, a lonely soul 
struggling among ideals, an affection too fastidious to be 
readily placed, and none of the sweet warmth and liberty 
and roughness of home at once to harden and console her 
— that had been her past. When at yesterday’s dawn she 
rose to start on her journey her heart was beating high, 
not only with the joy common to all youthful hearts at the 
prospect of adventure and change, but with the larger joy 
of a sense of freedom, of escape from a life irksome to her 
as the round of a menagerie cage ; and though a tender- 
hearted child, she had felt hardly a pang on quitting the 
house that for ten years had been her home in name. 

Since then two days have elapsed — two days of enchant- 
ment of a wide-opening world, of all the centuries crowd- 
ing together to be a spectacle for her eager, all-devouring 
eyes ; and in the midst of the enchantment she has found 
a friend. Yes, she feels certain she has found a friend. 
Elisabeth, sitting at the carriage window, watching the 
sky grow whitely luminous and a strange clearness over- 
spread the land as the moon rises above the summit of the 
hills, forgets again the procession of the centuries — she 
has never thought of them so much before — in this ex- 
quisit ecertainty that fills her heart. She has found a 
friend, and she is to meet him again — that is at least one 
thing clear in the midst of the dim uncertainties that lie 
before her ; and could her acquaintance of the afternoon 
have seen himself transfigured in the light that streamed 
on him from Elisabeth’s mind, he might have been not ill- 
pleased, since no man that I know of objects to such trans- 
figuring illumination ; he might not even have been sur- 
prised, since he had had some experience of the capacity 
of certain youthful minds for adoration ; but it is possible 
he might have been a trifle abashed. Nor if in the future he 
should fail to meet altogether the demands of Elisabeth’s 
imagination, should it be laid wholly to his charge ; all the 
saints in the Roman calendar combined could hardly have 
satisfied those immense, those exorbitant claims. 

The dreams of seventeen years are not, it may be held, 
of paramount utility to humanity at large ; but to the in- 
dividual who dreams them they have an interest not to be 
exceeded, perhaps, by any other known exercise of the 
fancy. Ah, what a friend is this, thinks Elisabeth, that 
kindest fate has led across her path — a friend such as she 
has often longed for ; grave, of great goodness, and pro- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


15 


found ; awe-inspiring, too, yet of a kindness that at the 
worst may reassure one . . . interested in one, too, as her 
new acquaintance had been. This was the innocent con- 
ceit, this the exquisite vanity, that was filling Elisabeth’s 
heart with bliss : that having, by help of kindest fate, met 
one who fulfilled every particular of her ideal — Elisabeth, 
with all her conscious cleverness, was not less hasty at con- 
clusions than other young people of fewer wits — she should 
at once, as she felt, have gained a singular place in his in- 
terest and esteem. Here were dreams to occupy a hero- 
ine’s mind and engage her fancy as the train sped onward 
through the wide green valleys beneath the broadening 
moonlight ; and to taste in its fulness that ineffable min- 
gling of awe, reverence, admiration and vanity, one must 
surely be seventeen, and no less ignorant of the world than 
Elisabeth. 

There is something so attractive — from certain points of 
view there is at least something so pathetic — in this youth- 
ful ignorance of the world and of self, that it seems a pity 
the dreams it engenders should, however innocent in them- 
selves, be almost inevitably pernicious in their results. 
Elisabeth’s were of a cloistered innocence that might have 
disarmed the most relentless destiny. They culminated in 
the conception that she might one day hear the Vicar of 
Thornton Briars' preach, and impart to him her personal 
impressions of his sermons. This conception did not mark 
the limits of Elisabeth’s imagination in other directions ; 
that had a range altogether independent of her new friend ; 
but as she ran over in her mind the various excellences 
she had discerned in him that day, it seemed to her that 
life could hold no choicer benediction than to sit a disciple 
at his feet, and confide to him those thorny difficulties tliat 
interfered so sadly with the counsels of perfection she had 
been instructed to follow. Her mind slipped from this 
felicitous vision of the future to con over the hardly less 
felicitous incidents of the immediate past. How kind he 
had been, her meditations ran, what goodness in his look ; 
how generous in action, how prompt to help her. She 
opened her bag and counted her money for the third or 
fourth time, to make sure it was all right. She had not 
spent so very much of it — not more, she thought, than she 
could replace in a few weeks out of her allowance of 
pocket-money ; and if not, he was so good that he would not 
mind if she returned him all that remained, and asked him 
to wait a little for the rest. She was almost glad now that 


i6 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


she had lost her purse ; otherwise she might have seen but 
little of Mr. Holland, after all. But now he had said that 
he would write to her ; she would have to write to him. 
Some intercourse between them there must necessarily be. 

And meanwhile, as these thoughts, in the strangest med- 
ley of past, present, and future, are coursing through Elisa- 
beth’s brain, the train, speeding onward, is bringing her 
to Schlossberg and all that the fates hold hidden for her 
there. Some three hours of railway had lain between the 
Rhine steamer and her final destination, but there had been 
some detention on the line. The night was well advanced 
toward midnight, and a full moon was shining down out 
of cloudless blue upon the ancient castle, the gabled roofs, 
the hills and vineyards and river of Schlossberg, when, 
with a final shriek, the train drew into the lighted station, 
and Elisabeth’s journey was at an end. 


CHAPTER IV. 

AN ENCHANTED NIGHT. 

Elisabeth’s carte-de-voyage had been made out with great 
precision before she left England. Not a loophole for 
adventure had apparently been left. The hours for 
departure, arrival, trains, boat, hotel, pension — all had 
been arranged beforehand with such detail as a careful, if 
not too affectionate aunt might think needful for a young 
niece starting forth into an unknown world. She had 
shaken her head, indeed, at that absence of an escort on 
the boat and railway journey from Bonn to Schlossberg ; 
but, after all, Elisabeth was only a child ; and a silent, shy, 
backward girl like herself was not likely to get into mis- 
chief. In short, and finally, it could not be helped. Mrs. 
Verrinder was about to start with her husband on a round 
of autumn visits ; it was convenient to despatch Elisabeth 
at that particular time, and at no other — there was nothing 
else to be done.. 

Mrs. Verrinder’s confidence in her niece was not ill- 
founded, though in spite of precautions, Elisabeth, as we 
know, had contrived to secure to herself at least one 
adventure — one, indeed, of dimensions quite undreamed 
of by her as yet. But that safely tided over for the 
moment, her way lay plain before her. Her destination 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


17 


was a certain pension kept by an elderly English lady, 
who in former years had been her aunt’s governess, and in 
whom Mrs. Verrinder, as she herself frequently remarked, 
had every confidence. With her Elisabeth was to board, 
more as a pupil and as a personal charge than as an ordi- 
nary member of the pension ; and attending her school- 
classes every day, would, a careful aunt might readily sup- 
pose, live through her twelvemonth abroad with no less 
propriety, and scarcely less dulness, than under Mrs. Ver- 
rinder’s own eye. 

All this Elisabeth knew beforehand, and it certainly 
demanded an imagination no less lively than her own to 
weave any possible romance out of such prosaic elements. 
Elisabeth, however, had an imagination equal to almost 
any emergency, and the mere fact of coming abroad was 
so wonderful to her that it seemed probable life would 
henceforward become a sort of transformation-scene that 
might be expected to become permanent at its most brill- 
iant moment. Had not, in fact, the shifting of the scenes 
begun even now? Already, before the train had reached 
the station, Elisabeth was on her feet, collecting her cloak, 
her umbrella, and her hand-bag ; and hardly had it stopped 
than she had sprung out and was looking about her 
with eager eyes. She was in search of an elderly English- 
woman, housekeeper at the pension for which she was 
bound, who would meet her at the Schlossberg station, 
her aunt had been assured beforehand, and at ‘once take 
charge of the young traveller. A description of Elisa- 
beth, precise as that demanded by a passport in bygone 
days, had been forwarded, not omitting the brown frock 
and brown straw hat, and she had no reasonable fear of 
being missed. She stood quietly then for a minute to 
allow the passengers to disperse, looking about her on 
every side ; then, as no one approached her, moved for- 
ward a few steps, to retreat shyly again to her former 
position. 

The station meanwhile was fast emptying ; one and 
another party had greeted their friends and vanished ; the 
train, after its brief delay, had disappeared with a shriek 
into the moonlit darkness ; a porter began to turn down 
the lights ; still no one came near Elisabeth as she stood 
lonely on the platform. She could stand there no longer. 
Half frightened, she gave up her ticket, passed through 
the door of and found herself alone in the booking- 
office outside. 


2 


i8 THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 

The station-master, observant of the solitary figure who 
stood as though doubtful what to do, came up and ad- 
dressed her. 

“ The Fraulein is perhaps waiting for someone ? ” he said. 

‘‘ I was expecting someone,” said Elisabeth, in her 
school-girl German ; “ but she hasn’t come. There is some 
mistake, I suppose. What had I better do ? ” 

‘‘You have some luggage, perhaps?” said the man. 
“ Have you far to go ? ” 

“ I don’t know — to the Pension Elder, 102, Bergstrasse,” 
said Elisabeth. “ I have some luggage. Hadn’t I better 
have a carriage ? ” 

The man opened the entry door and looked out. 

“ The carriages are all gone,” he said. “This is the last 
train, and it is late. But it is not very far to walk,” he 
went on, as Elisabeth looked at him in some dismay. “A 
porter can take your luggage on a truck and show you the 
way.” 

“ Oh, thank you ; yes, that will do, ” said Elisabeth ; and 
five minutes later, with her box rolling on a truck in front, 
under the charge of guide and porter in one, she had left 
the station behind her, and was making her way through 
the town of Schlossberg. 

The town ? An enchanted city opening before her eyes 
as she walked onward with her guide. It was close upon 
midnight ; the streets were empty ; their footsteps echoed 
as they passed along. The full moon shone clear over- 
head, white and intense in the largeness of the vacant sky, 
transfiguring every wall and gable, building up, as it were, 
streets of whitest marble under the wide heaven of blue. 
Hardly a lamp was burning in those light-flooded streets ; 
but here and there in some high-set window a yellow spark 
that told of human life added to the remote enchantment 
of the hour. And, hark ! higher still, up in mid-aii*, a clock 
chimes four quarters above the sleeping city, a deep-toned 
bell slowly tells the midnight hour, and as it dies away an- 
other and another swings on the vibrating air, down from 
strange towers that rise against the sky, into Elisabeth’s 
very soul. Now and then a belated figure, with shadow 
strangely shrunk in the broad moonlight, hurries by ; a 
brief shout of laughter (what strange laughter, what gob- 
lin shadows !) echoes round some corner ; then silence falls 
again. Our wayfarer, with the eager eyes, the overflowing 
heart, seems to herself alone in that enchanted world. 

To every mortal with eyes to see and heart to compre- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


19 


bend, such magic city rises once in life ; then vanishes, 
never to return. But to Elisabeth, with the cup of rapt- 
ure at her lips, drinking with the insatiable thirst of her 
seventeen years, that cup seemed deeper than the ocean, 
wider than all heaven and earth, a cup to brim over 
to the end of life. Could she have had her will, that 
walk through the enchanted night would hardly have 
known an end. But, alas ! these w^ere but the streets of 
Schlossberg she was treading ; that guide in front of her, 
looking back' now and again to make sure that she was 
following, was but a railway-porter with a trunk ; and pres- 
ently, midway down a wide and well-paved street, he 
paused in front of a door surmounting a flight of some 
three or four stone steps. The street was empty and echo- 
ing like the others, and the moonlight, falling full on the 
house, showed a blank and shuttered front. It was a large 
and handsome building, but from roof to basement not a 
sign showed that any traveller ever had been or could be 
expected there. But that ‘‘Pension Elder” showed in 
black letters on a glittering door-plate, Elisabeth would 
have thought there must be some mistake. 

“ Please, will you ring ? ” she said, in faltering accents. 
“I do hope everyone is not in bed.” 

The man rang and waited. The shadows fell back across 
the white pavement ; some city clock overhead chimed out 
the half-quarter. As the sound died away the man rang 
again, a louder peal. Elisabeth, standing there, began to 
feel frightened and forlorn. She was tired, she was hungry, 
she remembered that she was all alone in the heart of a 
strange city. 

A footstep audible within at last, a bolt withdrawn, a 
yellow gleam visible within a cautiously opened door. 

“ Who is it ?” said a female voice. 

“Am I not expected ?” said Elisabeth, running up the 
steps. 

The door opened wider, and a dishevelled, sleepy maid- 
servant appeared. She looked at Elisabeth, she looked at 
her trunk, and a gleam of intelligence showed itself in her 
face. 

“You can’t come in,” she said ; “but if you’ll wait I’ll 
call the Englishwoman.” 

She disappeared, and five minutes later an elderly 
woman, whose hasty toilet had still an air of neatness, ap- 
peared descending the staircase, lamp in hand, and ap- 
proached Elisabeth. 


20 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


‘‘ I’m sorry, miss, I’m sure,” she said at once. You were 
expected here this evening, perhaps?” 

“Yes, oh, yes!” said Elisabeth, opening her eyes. 
“ Wasn’t it you who were to have met me at the station ? ” 

“Well, miss, I dare say it was, though I heard nothing 
of it. You see, we’re in sad trouble here. My poor mis- 
tress died quite suddenly yesterday morning, and the 
house is shut up.” 

“Oh ! ” said Elisabeth, in dismay, “what shall I do ? I 
was to have come here. I have nowhere else to go.” 

“Well, I’m sorry, miss. I’m sure,” the woman said again ; 
“but I couldn’t take you in — not to make you comfort- 
able. We might just give you a bed ; but the funeral’s the 
first thing to-morrow morning, and altogether I couldn’t 
advise it. We had only one family in, as it happened, and 
they left at once.” 

“ Oh, no, I couldn’t come,” said Elisabeth, shrinking back 
at the mention of the funeral. The news of this unknown 
death caused her no especial emotion, nor was her infor- 
mant’s impassive manner calculated to induce any. “ Only 
I don’t know what to do,” she said again, rather piteously. 

“ Well, miss, if I were you I should just go to an hotel 
for the night, and to-morrow you’ll see. You have friends, 
I dare say, in Schlossberg.” 

“No, oh no!” said Elisabeth. “ 1 was to have stayed 
with Miss Elder ; I don’t know anyone else.” 

“ Then, miss, you’ll have to write to your friends in Eng- 
land and just tell them how it is, and for to-night you’d 
best go to the Kaiserhof. It’s close by here, in the Platz 
at the end of this street. You’ll find it open yet, for it’s 
the biggest hotel here, and there's always a night-porter 
on hand. I’m sorry, I’m sure, it’s happened so; but you 
see how it is, miss, and I shall be leaving myself to-mor- 
row after the funeral. You just take this young lady to 
the Kaiserhof,” the woman went on, addressing the porter 
in German ; and the next minute Elisabeth once more 
found herself following her guide down the moonlit street. 
Another minute and a wide Place opened on her view ; 
trees were planted round and cast spreading black shadows 
on the wide and empty pavement ; in the centre was the 
tranquil plash of running water; opposite, the word 
“ Kaiserhof ” glittered in the moonlight across a wide hotel 
front. Elisabeth’s heart, which had sunk for a moment, 
bounded up again in ecstasy. An exulting sense of free- 
dom and adventure took possession of her. She forgot 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


21 


fatigue, she forgot hunger ; she only felt that she was 
free. 

The hotel was hushed and sleeping, but the night-por- 
ter was at his post, and no difficulty was made in giving 
Elisabeth a room. Nay, when, on being asked if she 
were in want of anything, she ventured diffidently to in- 
quire whether she could have something to eat, a little 
supper-tray was immediately conveyed to her bedroom. 
No fairy-tale adventure could have seemed more complete 
to Elisabeth. Left to herself, she surveyed her new do- 
main with rapture. To her inexperienced eyes, accus- 
tomed only to the bare school dormitory, the simple furni- 
ture of the little room she called her own in her uncle’s 
house, this ordinary hotel apartment, with its Utrecht vel- 
vet chairs and sofa, its polished floor and mahogany writ- 
ing-table, its tall gilt candlesticks and clock, seemed of 
palatial splendor. She opened her window and stood 
gazing out ; opposite to her, above the trees in the Place, 
rose steep antique roofs, pierced with rows of dormer 
windows that glittered in the moonlight ; beyond, a church 
tower was outlined against the luminous sky ; beyond all 
rose the darkness of the forest-covered hills. Long did 
Elisabeth stand gazing out, invaded, surrounded, intoxi- 
cated by a sense of freedom, of eternal emancipation. 
How could the old life begin again ? It never could — 
never. The tears rushed to her eyes ; she stretched out 
both arms to the silence, the moonlight, the placid air ; a 
hundred emotions were stirring in her heart, awakened 
she knew not how. 

She turned away with a sigh at last, but not to sleep. 
Two candles stood burning on the writing-table, luxury 
unknown to a school-girl life. She pulled out her little 
diary, and sat scribbling the records of these unimagined 
joys, until long after every clock in the city had chimed 
out the hour of two in the August morning. 


22 


THE FAIL C/EE OF ELISABETH. 


CHAPTER V. 

HOW MR. HOLLAND ONCE COURTED NEMESIS. 

While Elisabeth was thus pursuing her unexpectedlj 
adventurous course to unlooked-for ends, her companion on 
the Rhine boat, who had occupied so many of her thoughts 
during the day, was passing his hours in the more sober 
and serious fashion proper to his character and to his 
position in life. 

The Reverend Robert Holland, Vicar of Thornton Briars, 
a somewhat remote and widely-scattered parish in one of 
the southern counties, was, like Elisabeth, making his first 
essay in Continental travel (he had been abroad before, 
but only on rapid railway journeys to and from a given 
spot) ; but the impression made on each by this fresh ex- 
perience differed by more than the difference represented 
by the years between seventeen and thirty-six. To Mr. 
Holland, in common with most men who have reached 
middle-age, the practical side of life presented at once 
sufficient interest and a sufficient number of complications 
to engage most of his attention ; but apart from this, he 
was at no time a person of very lively imagination ; the 
Continent presented to him no boundless vista of infinite 
possibilities ; and his journey, made strictly in obedience 
to the doctor’s orders, had been undertaken sorely against 
his will. So far, the inconveniences and annoyances of 
this compulsory exile — the foreign tongues (he spoke no 
language but his own), the details of travel, the fatigues, 
the expenses — more than counteracted any possible pleas- 
ure an unimaginative, midde-aged man, educated but not 
cultivated, could be expected to find in the sight of ruins, 
however attractive, and the echoes of a guitar romance. 
The centuries, which Elisabeth found so absorbing, had 
nothing to say to him at all. Schlossberg was the final 
goal of his journey ; for rest and change of scene being 
what he needed rather than change of climate, he had 
chosen that town with a view to renewing a friendship of 
some standing with the clergyman who officiated there as 
resident English chaplain. Other ties Mr. Holland had 
there also ; but these he held to be of a nature to repel 
rather than to invite him — so much so, that the fact had 
suspended his decision for a while, when he was consider- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


23 


ing the question of a winter residence. But a lonely man 
in broken health is too dependent on others for absolute 
freedom of decision ; and a letter from his friend urging 
the claims of Schlossberg, arriving at the critical moment, 
finally decided him in its favor. It was, however, to be 
his winter residence only. Some weeks at one of the 
German baths had been recommended to him in tlie first 
instance ; and he was on his way now to Schwalbach, 
stopping at Bingen for a night en route to see a half-brother 
who had lately married, and was residing on an estate in 
the immediate neighborhood of that town. 

Mr. Holland, then, keeping his portmanteau well in 
view with the nervousness common to inexperienced 
travellers, directed his steps to one of the town hotels, and 
presently found himself installed in a small apartment 
looking out on a back courtyard. The room showed 
little of that luxury that was to dazzle Elisabeth in her 
apartment of splendor only a few hours later. Mr. 
Holland was a man of plain tastes who held economical 
views of life. He had selected his hotel beforehand from 
Baedeker’s list, with a regard to strict economy, and had 
not failed, before allowing his portmarfteau to be carried 
upstairs, to enter into a narrow inquiry as to prices with 
the landlord. For it was the misfortune of this country 
vicar to have come abroad with the rooted conviction that 
the foreign world was in a conspiracy to cheat him, and 
that a frugal man should not only consider every penny 
twice before spending it, but, so far as possible, carefully 
reduce that penny to a lialfpenny before spending it at all. 
It was the lesson he had taken most to heart in studying 
his guide-book, that treated with equal impartiality and 
indifference the prices of hotels and the architecture of 
cathedrals, the fees of cicerones and the history of art. 
For the mind, as we all know, finds what it seeks, and dis- 
covers what it brings ; and it was the idiosyncrasy of the 
Vicar of Thornton Briars to bring the consideration of 
shillings and pence to bear upon very various subjects, 
and to find the troublesome problems connected with them 
startup at most of the corners he turned in life. He had, 
to speak plainly — it may as well be stated first as last — 
that inveterate dislike to parting with his money that 
must surely occasion a man a good deal of unnecessary 
annoyance, and which has the drawback, moreover, of not 
infrequently placing him at a greater disadvantage than 
much worse sins would do. In Mr. Holland the dislike 


24 


THE FAILURE OF EIJSABETH. 


arose from some curiously contradictory causes that can 
be understood only through a brief survey of his previous 
life. 

It was in the blind court of a back street in Derby that 
Robert Holland, some six-and-thirty years before this 
liistory commences, first saw the light. His father, Captain 
Holland, attached to a regiment then quartered at Derby, 
had committed the unoriginal folly of falling in love with 
the simple and pretty graces of a little nursery gover- 
ness. The nursery governess, he presently discovered, was 
the daughter of a fierce little Dissenting minister, who 
officiated at a small chapel- up a back lane ; and urged 
partly by affection, partly by fear of a possible scandal 
and uproar. Captain Holland married the young girl. He 
was a man of good birth and excellent connections ; but 
he was a younger son without prospects, and tlie habit of a 
man in his position, of spending a good deal more money 
than he possessed ; when, therefore, he had got his wife 
he had not an idea what to do with her. The only thing 
that occurred to him was to stipulate that the marriage 
should be kept secret for the present ; and a month later, 
his regiment being ordered to Ireland, to leave her behind 
in tlie care of her parents. Captain Holland was a hand- 
some, easy-going young fellow ; he assured liimself, without 
any attempt at evasion, that he had made a huge blunder 
and committed the greatest folly in the world ; but he pre- 
served his cheerfulness, and had no idea of not making 
himself as comfortable as possible under the circum- 
stances. He arranged a small allowance for his wife, 
wrote to her occasionally, and during the months that 
followed thought little more about her. At the end of 
those months a letter arrived from the Dissenting minister, 
informing him of the birth of a son and the death of his 
wife. Captain Holland was as much taken aback as it was 
in his nature to be ; for the poor girl, partly through tim- 
idity, partly through a dull resentment at the treatment 
she had received, had concealed the expected birth of her 
child. Captain Holland obtained leave of absence, and 
arrived at Derby with an air of indignation at the deceit 
that had been practised that effectually masked any grief 
or remorse he might feel. He visited his wife’s grave and 
ordered a tombstone ; at the baby he hardly glanced, but 
desired it should remain with it§ grandparents, fixing an 
allowance sufficient for its maintenance ; and so departed 
rejoicing in the knowledge that, ^ut for that slight tax of 


THE FAILURE OF EL/SABETH 


25 


some eighty pounds a year, he was once more a free 
man. 

That was how Robert Holland came into the world. 

The child grew up with his grandparents in the back 
lane leading out of a Derby street, and knew no other life. 
He was aware of his father's existence, but that was all. 
Some five or six years after his first wife’s death. Captain 
Holland married again ; a more splendid alliance this 
time, with a young Austrian girl of rank and fortune. 
He left the army and settled in Vienna — he liad a sister 
there, married to Richard Temple, partner in, and repre- 
sentative in that city of, the great banking house of 
Temple & Temple ; their infant son, Gordon, was being 
rejoiced over at tlie epoch of the marriage, as heir to 
immense wealth. They held a brilliant position, and it 
was at their house Captain Hohand first met his bride. 
He settled in Vienna, and a son and daughter being 
presently born to him, the existence of his eldest son came 
into his head not oftener, perhaps, than twice a year. It 
was liis eldest son ; but the words have little significance 
to a man of Captain Holland’s stamp, when there is no 
money to leave or to be inherited ; and all Captain Hol- 
land’s present wealth came from his second wife, and 
would necessarily go to her children. The boy’s allow- 
ance was paid through his lawyer; there was nothing 
further to remind him of the Derby back lane and the 
most uncomfortable passage of his life. Little Robert, 
meanwhile, grew up not unhappily. As soon as he was 
old enougli, he was sent to the cliapel school, and even 
before that was taken to the chapel pew, where he saw 
and heard with awe his grandfather fulminating strange 
doctrines above his head. The child took kindly to the 
life ; he was the pattern boy at school, was allowed to sit 
up at chapel tea-drinkings, and presently, after going 
through unknown terrors at such awful visions of hell as 
were suggested by his hymn-book and his grandfather’s 
sermons, began to blossom into infant piety. He put his 
rare pennies into the missionary box, alternately with the 
money box in which his grandmother instructed him to 
keep his savings ; since money was meant to be kept by 
little boys, not spent, except for the poor heathen. He 
read biographies of pious children who had died young, 
much to their own content (he would' have liked a pious 
death-bed himself, if he could have read his own biography 
afterward) ; and presently he himself began to have ex- 


26 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


periences which he detailed, to the edification and wonder 
of the petty tradesmen’s wives who attended the Shoe 
Lane Bethel, and drank tea at the house of the minister. 
There was no affectation in all this on the boy’s part ; he 
accepted everything he was taught with intense conviction, 
and grew up by degrees an intelligent, though rather slow- 
witted lad, mild in manner, but with a tenacious will and 
domineering temper that made itself felt among his school- 
mates. Little Robert worshipped his grandfather, and be- 
lieved everything he said with an implicit faith. By the 
time he was eight years old he desired nothing better than 
to tread in the old man’s footsteps and occupy in his turn 
the Shoe Lane pulpit. 

Such, in fact, might possibly have been the destiny of 
Captain Holland’s eldest son, but for the death, when he 
was about twelve years old, of his other grandfather, Sir 
Mark Holland, of whom he had never even heard. Cap- 
tain Holland’s eldest brother Arthur, succeeding to the 
title and estates, bethought him to look into the family 
affairs, and presently called to mind his half-forgotten 
nephew. (Captain Holland had made no secret of his 
first marriage as time went on, but had spoken of the boy 
vaguely, as living with his grandparents and getting a 
sound English education.) The new baronet had half a 
dozen children of his own, and no special interest in the 
boy ; but he had always disapproved of his younger 
brother, and it occurred to him now, as head of the family, 
to consider it a scandal that one of its members, bearing 
the family name, should be living neglected in a back 
lane. He ascertained the boy’s address at Derby, and 
went to hunt him up ; with the ultimate result, when 
various letters had passed between the heads of the family 
— Captain Holland was surprised, he wrote, to hear of 
his son in jacket and trousers ; he had figured him as still 
in petticoats — that young Robert was put in the way of a 
more liberal education by being placed at a good gram- 
mar school. He was still to spend his holidays in Shoe 
Lane ; for that his grandfather had stipulated ; but that did 
not preclude an occasional visit to his uncle’s country 
house. Sir Arthur disliked his nephew as much as it was 
possible to dislike anyone so mild and inoffensive ; for 
the lad revealed bx degrees two qualities, an obstinate 
narrowness of vi^^^Find a love of saving that the baronet 
held to be who^y at variance with the more generous 
traditions of an English gentleman. Of the first the 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 27 

boy was unconscious ; the second he had been taught 
to regard as a virtue — was proud of it, indeed, until 
presently, perceiving that his frugal mind brought him 
no repute among his school-fellows, he learned to hold 
his tongue, and incurred no more unpopularity and re- 
proach than always attends a niggard among prodigals. 
With his uncle he gained but little ground, and none the 
more for a declaration made early in their acquaintance, 
that he would be neither soldier nor sailor, would study 
neither physic nor the law, and knew no ambition in life 
but that of inheriting his grandfather’s pulpit in Shoe 
Lane. Nothing could be more remote from Sir Arthur’s 
intention than that his nephew, whom he had, as he 
hyperbolically expressed it in moments of disgust, picked 
out of a back lane gutter, should sink into a petty Dis- 
senting minister ; but finding the boy’s religious convic- 
tions, of whatever kind, sincere, and his will of unequalled 
pertinacity, he presently destined him in his own mind 
for the Church. There was a family living that must 
some day fall vacant ; meanwhile he could go to Oxford. 
The boy himself, as time went on, began, under new influ- 
ences, to swerve in his allegiance to Little Bethel. Each 
succeeding holiday the house in Shoe Lane seemed nar- 
rower, more penurious, less acceptable to the expanding 
youth ; by the time he was seventeen lie fell not far short 
of being ashamed of it. This feeling was accentuated to 
an extraordinary degree by a visit that he at last paid his 
father in Vienna during a long vacation. 

The visit, it may be said at once, did the young man no 
good. His father’s wealth, in which he could never have 
a share ; the luxury, or so it seemed to him, not only in 
his father’s house, but in that of those other unknown rela- 
tions of whom till now he had hardly heard — his aunt, his 
uncle, his cousin, Gordon Temple ; the wide difference 
between himself and the brother and sister, seen now for 
the first time ; all these things swelled the young fellow’s 
heart with a strange perplexing complication of feelings. 
Before half the term fixed for his visit had expired, he left 
abruptly ; he returned straight to Shoe Lane, and stayed 
there for the remainder of the vacation. The dull fire of 
a fanatical egotism was kindled in his breast ; that was the 
next phase in young Holland’s development. He was 
filled with anger at the contrast bet^^n his kindred’s 
wealth and the poverty of his ow^lot ; and yet he 
triumphed in that poverty as a distinction that, setting 


28 


THE FAILURE OF ELISA BET/L 


him above the world, placed liim in the direct favor of 
God. When in the first weeks after his arrival he was 
requested, as he had been requested before — his gifts of 
piety and eloquence being known — to address a meeting, 
he chose as the text of his discourse, “How hardly shall 
they that have riches enter into the kingdom of heaven.'’ 
He spoke with the fire of conviction, but it was the last 
address Robert Holland ever delivered in Shoe Lane. 
The final result of his visit to Vienna presently showed 
itself in a strong reaction against some of the more sacred 
traditions of his early life ; in his second year at Oxford 
he associated himself, as a young man destined for the 
Church, with the extreme High Church party. In after 
years he somewhat modified his views in this direction, as 
the milder side of his nature taught him tolerance ; but 
the reaction remained complete. All tliat now was left of 
liis early training in religious matters was a hard and 
narrow strenuousness of aim, differing not in degree, but 
in some indefinable quality — a certain commonness of 
imagination, perhaps — from that of his new associates. 
He was no more popular at Oxford tlian he had been at 
school ; and he himself came by degrees to an uneasy 
consciousness of something wrong. Confronted by the 
large and easy life of his contemporaries, he somehow 
found himself wanting. He took refuge as before in dis- 
approval, which was easy enough ; but he felt the taint of 
Shoe Lane clinging to him — that was what it was ! Before 
the years of his residence at Oxford had expired, he had 
resolved to break, as much as possible, with his old asso- 
ciations ; and his grandfather dying the year he was 
ordained, the resolution was the less difficult to keep. 

The old grandmother was now his only link with Shoe 
Lane. He went to see her once or twice, but he never 
mentioned her existence. Definitively he was ashamed of 
his earlier years. The old woman did not long survive 
her husband ; her grandson was with her to soothe her 
death-bed, and an hour or two before she died she handed 
over to him her savings — nearly fifty pounds — sewn up in 
an old stuff pocket. Holland was at this time a hard- 
working London curate, with every confidence in his voca- 
tion, and no prevision of an approaching catastrophe that 
in one way or another was to influence his life to the very 
end. His father had died whilst he was still at Oxford, 
and for a long time he had little intercourse with his rela- 
tions in Vienna. But in the second year of his curacy an 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


29 


intimation reached him of his half-sister Emilia’s approach- 
ing marriage with Count Karl von Waldorf — she was at 
that time about eighteen, a young girl of great beauty and 
distinction— and an invitation to be present at the wed- 
ding. 

Robert Holland’s first impulse was to refuse. What 
had he, a hard-working parish priest, to do with people such 
as those ? His next step was to accept. An overmaster- 
ing desire had seized him to see and taste and share again 
in all those things that might have been his own portion 
— that was what he had taught himself to believe — had 
his father dealt justly by him. He went; he remained 
nearly a month, and came back maddened by an immense 
craving, an immense resentment. He came back to his 
sordid London lodging, his untidy landlady, his ill-cooked, 
ill served meals. It was not that he had ever greatly 
minded these things in themselves ; he had no fine dis- 
crimination, and much indifference to personal comfort. 
It might be a truer statement that these things and Ins 
personal comfort had little to say to each other ; the 
simplest luxury procured by a call upon his purse had 
always seemed to him too dearly bought. But he was 
only five-and-twenty ; he had the blood of his pleasure- 
loving father in his veins, as well as that of the old grand- 
mother who had taught him practically that money was 
the chief good ; and below all, as has been said, lay an 
immense resentment. There were times during these 
months that followed when Holland, tired out by a hard 
day’s work, was not far from declaring that he was ready 
to sell his soul to the devil for a fortune ; and presently 
he went nearly as far in that direction as the degenerate 
resources of modern civilization will allow. The devil has 
no great originality of device, one is sometimes tempted 
to think ; he led the young fellow, at any rate, a way that 
he has led many a young fellow before him. He induced 
him to lay hands on certain funds to which he had access, 
belonging to a parish charity, and embark with them in a 
speculation that on a certain day was to land him in the 
midst of wealth. 

It landed him penniless, with the empty cashbox before 
him, that he had now no means of replenishing ; and the 
discovery, that could in no case have been long delayed, 
was made by accident some twenty-four hours later. The 
facts of the case, however, were suppressed, so far as the 
public was concerned, as much as possible. A vague 


30 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


scandal, indeed, spread through the parish among such as 
occupied themselves with Church matters, of the misap- 
propriation, or worse, of certain funds ; but the money, it 
was further rumored, was repaid almost immediately, 
which threw a kind of doubt upon the whole story. Never- 
theless, it trickled down here and there, making a deposit 
in one or two minds it was never meant to reach. That is 
a kind of Nemesis that seldom fails to wait upon scandals 
of the sort, and it was not wanting in Robert Holland’s 
case. But in general the details were known only to the 
few more immediately concerned, and though he left the 
parish not long afterward to take a curacy in the North 
of England, the scandal, so far as he knew, was not direct- 
ly associated with his name. His rector was a just and 
a merciful man. Something he had seen and under- 
stood of the morbid, unsettled state of mind his curate had 
brought back with him from Vienna. He valued him as 
one of the best and most indefatigable workers he had 
ever had to do with, and though the discovery of his ill- 
doing was a shock, he saw no need to ruin a young man 
at the outset of life for what, he had no doubt, was a 
moment’s aberration. He could not keep him in the parish 
— if the story had, in fact, got abroad, the scandal would 
have been too great — but he sent him to an old friend 
holding a living in a North-Country manufacturing dis- 
trict, stating the case, and yet recommending him as a man 
capable of a larger amount of good work than most men, 
and as likely as most men, the past notwithstanding, to lead 
an upright, conscientious life. The event sufficiently justi- 
fied him. The shock had sobered the young fellow once 
for all ; he was terror stricken ; he was stung by remorse. 
More than that, within the limits of his nature — a man can 
be no more — he was deeply penitent. Those past months 
represented for him the “Sturm und Drang” period of 
his youth, its sorry crop of wild oats, its sad and evil 
romance. Henceforward he settled down with a steadi- 
ness to the best work his life was to know. 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


31 


CHAPTER VI. 

MR. Holland’s history continued. 

His character did not change, since character never 
changes ; it only narrowed and developed itself along 
certain lines. His communications with Germany became 
scantier as time went by. That was by his own desire ; he 
had no wish for closer relations with that prosperous branch 
of his family. The eye he turned in that direction never 
shone with a friendlier light than at first ; on the contrary, 
it became cloudier with a complication of feelings he 
ceased to analyze, but which translated themselves easily 
enough, and not too offensively to himself, by the word 
disapproval. One member of his family, however, Mr. 
Holland came to regard with some kindliness — the kind- 
liness that springs from services asked and rendered — and 
that was his half-brother Otto. The boy, by his father’s 
desire, was educated entirely in England ; but Robert 
Holland’s first acquaintance with him dated from the jour- 
ney they made together to Vienna on the occasion of 
Emilia Holland’s marriage. Otto, a handsome scapegrace 
some three years younger than his sister, was at that period 
trying the patience of his masters at Eton ; and not long 
after their return to England his half-brother, who was 
then still in London revolving those desperate thoughts 
we know of, received a letter from his young relative 
entreating him to come and help him out of an awful 
scrape. The boy was in a scrape, no doubt ; and in mortal 
terror of its coming to the ears of his guardian, Sir Arthur 
Holland, he had applied to his half-brother for help. Not 
that he very much liked him ; no young fellow ever thor- 
oughly liked Robert Holland ; still, he seemed a good 
enough sort of chap, and being a parson, ought to know 
how to pull him through. Robert went down to Eton, 
and did pull him through, to the boy’s lasting gratitude. 
Afterward, when he left Eton and went to Oxford, he still 
saw his elder brother from time to time, and an odd sort of 
liking grew up between the two ; not thoroughly cordial 
on either side, but with the kind of familiarity without 
intimacy that can only exist between near relations. 
They continued to keep up an intermittent intercourse, 
and it was through him that Mr. Holland learnt the two 


32 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


events that principally affected his iamily in the following 
years : the death of his stepmother at Vienna, and that of 
his sister’s husband, Count von Waldorf, killed by a fall 
from his horse some six or seven years after their marriage. 

These things did not affect him greatly; it was not to be ex- 
pected that they should: he was more closely touched by the 
death of a lady to whom he became engaged during the 
last year of his curacy in the North of England. She had 
been a plain little woman, some years his senior, with a 
boundless capacity for devotion to himself. Mr. Holland, 
however, was not unused to devotion from the female por- 
tion of his flock ; it was an incense, he had found, that al- 
ways burned freely enough ; and he had been more influ- 
enced, perhaps, in his choice of a wife by the fact that this 
plain little woman was an heiress in her way, with some 
three or four hundred a year of her own. That loss of an 
easy prospect for the future was a terrible blow to our 
curate, mingled as it was with a certain tenderness and 
affection for the poor little woman herself. He was only 
beginning to rally, when the presentation of the family 
living of Thornton Briars set his mind once more at rest 
for the future. It was a living of some value, though Mr. 
Holland privately found a good deal to reprehend in the 
injustice of fate that had made him vicar instead of rec- 
tor. His uncle, it may be observed in passing, had known 
nothing of that early backsliding of his nephew — that 
strange, that almost impossible episode, as it now appeared 
to Robert Holland himself. There had been nothing, 
there had been no one, to remind him of it for these seven 
years past ; he had banished it from his thoughts, as far 
as possible from his memory. He thought, in fact, very 
well of himself at this time, better than of most people, 
and found no reason to do otherwise. The people he 
worked among thought well of him ; he loved his work, 
and was greatly beloved by many of his parishioners. He 
had the habit of authority, of exhortation, of rebuke ; these 
things create a second life for a man that lies quite apart 
from that other life in which he owns himself a miserable 
sinner, and may end by leaving it far behind. He had the 
excellent fortune, too, of a field of labor altogether con- 
genial to him, and one exactly suited to his powers. He 
ended, however, by over taxing his powers. Three years 
after the day on which he took possession of the vicarage 
of Thornton Briars, his health broke down, and he was 
driven abroad, as we have seen. 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


33 


Such, in imperfect Qutline, had been the past history of 
the Reverend Robert Holland, whom, after his day on 
board the Rliine boat — to resume our narrative at the 
point where it was dropped — we have seen preparing, in 
somewhat sorry fashion, to take his ease in his inn at Bin- 
gen. 


CHAPTER VH. 

MR. Holland’s correspondence. 

Having arranged matters, then, with his landlord on the 
basis already indicated, and proved that he was not a man 
to be imposed upon, Mr. Holland presently partook of a 
modest supper in the hotel coffee-room, and thence retired 
to the solitude of the little chamber that had been assigned 
to him on an upper floor. A packet of letters lay awaiting 
him on the table, for he had directed his correspondence 
to be forwarded to his hotel. He turned them over one by 
one, with no great sign of pleasure or expectation as he 
recognized the handwriting on each ; and laying them 
down again to await his leisure, he opened his portmantt^au 
and began slowly (all his movements were slow) to ex- 
change his boots for slippers, his travelling coat for a 
looser garment. Then pulling an armchair forward to the 
table, whence the frugal light of a single candle dismally 
shone on the room, he placed himself in it with an air of 
fatigue, and took up the letters once more. Three of 
them bore the postmark of his English parish ; a fourth 
had a German stamp. Mr. Holland drew the candle closer 
to him, and proceeded to. examine their contents. 

The first he opened was from the curate left in charge 
of his parish ; the second was from one of his churchwar- 
dens : he glanced at them, and threw them on one side with 
a gesture of impatience. It had cost him a cruel pang to 
hand over the parish and his work to other hands ; but 
the pang accomplished, he found an indescribable weari- 
ness in the thought of shouldering the burthen of business 
again. He took up the third letter, which also bore the 
Thornton Briars postmark ; and this he perused with 
something more of attention. It was from a young parish- 
ioner, the daughter of the village doctor, whom Mr. Hol- 
land had been lately engaged in preparing for Confirma- 
tion. It ran as follows in a slim, facile handwriting : 


34 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


Dear Mr. Holland : — When I came back from my 
aunt’s last week, I found you were already gone. I can- 
not tell you how sorry I was ; 1 sat down and cried for 
half an hour. 1 did so hope to see you again, and to wish 
you good-by. I wanted to tell you how often I sliould 
think of you, and of all that you have said to me ; but as 1 
couldn’t see you, I write as you bade me. I am sure you 
know — do you not, dear Mr. Holland ? that I do wish to do 
what you think right ; but it will be so much harder now 
you are gone away, and there is no one for me to talk to. 
1 have done as you advised, and taken a class at the Sun- 
day-school while I am at home for the holidays ; Mr. Rich- 
ards offered to help me about it on Sunday,Abut that was 
not the same thing as having you at all^. Still, I don’t 
think I really did badly. Maria Wright’s^boys — she has 
the class next to mine, you know — were not half so atten- 
tive as mine ; but I know that was only because I was 
thinking all the while of you, and trying to fancy you were 
there. I could cry now to think tliat you were not, , and 
will not be for such a long time to come. Do get well 
soon, dear Mr. Holland, and come home again. I am go- 
ing to learn to do a great deal of parish work by the 
time you return, so as to be able to help you more. You 
know it is what I rea/fy care most about, though I know it 
is my duty to give some of my time to other things I do 
not like nearly so well. I don’t think anything can be so 
interesting as poor people, and trying to do them good, do 
you ? Perhaps when you return you will let me go about 
with you a little and hear what you say to them : there is 
no one so good as you are. Do get well and come back 
soon, dear Mr. Holland. 

^‘Your affectionate 

‘‘Dulcie Fawcett.” 

It was with a half-smile, smoothing down his mustache 
the while with one finger, that Mr. Holland read this effu- 
sion from his youthful parishioner. He laid it down, and 
took up the fourth letter, one altogether different from its 
companions. It bore the Schlossberg postmark ; the ad- 
dress, in a clear and beautiful handwriting, was on fine, 
delicately scented paper, and the fastening of the envelope 
bore a stamped coronet. Mr. Holland turned it over once 
or twice before opening it, not because he had any doubt 
as to who the writer might be — the letter, as he was well 
aware, was from his half-sister, Emilia von Waldorf — but 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


35 


because something in its appearance was so alien from the 
habits of his life that a certain strangeness, so it would 
seem, lay to him even in its possession. He opened it 
slowly and carefully at last, studying the coronet curious- 
ly, and leaving it intact, as though it were some strange 
insect, that might be expected to sting if it were touched. 
These were the contents of the letter : 

“ My Dear Robert : — I hear you are in Germany, and on 
your way to Schlossberg, and though we know so little of 
each other — a brother and sister could hardly, I think 
know less — so much the more I look forward to this op- 
portunity for our becoming better acquainted. Otto tells 
me that you think of spending tlie entire winter in 
Schlossberg. I have still my pied-a-terre here, that I have 
kept on since my husband’s death — you know, I dare say, 
that his love of scientific research led him to reside here 
generally during the winter months — and though I am not 
actually occupying it at this moment, but am at an hotel 
with Aunt Irma whilst some necessary painting and pa- 
pering is going on, I expect to move back again in the 
course of a week or two. It is inhospitable of me, I feel, 
not to invite you at once to take up your residence with 
me, but my house, when you see it, must make its own 
apology for its churlishness. For though it is not small, 
so far as the size of the rooms is concerned, the rooms are 
few in number, and the accommodation limited in propor- 
tion. Aunt Irma is with me, as usual, during the summer, 
and when she returns to Vienna I hope to prevail on Gor- 
don to let my uncle come to me. So far, he will not hear 
of it, though it would certainly be the best arrangement ; 
he has the idea in his head that he and his father ought to 
be together. It is a great mistake, if he could only be 
brought to see it. All this, however, is by the way ; my 
point is to make you understand my regret that I should 
not have a spare room to olfer you. But we shall often 
see each other, notwithstanding, I hope ; and you must 
tell me at once if I can be of use to you in looking for 
rooms, or in any other way. If you will let me know just 
what you want, I shall certainly be able to discover it. 
Otto tells me that you go first by your doctor’s orders to 
Schwalbach, so I suppose we must not look for you just 
yet ; but I write now to bid you welcome to Germany, and 
to assure you of a still warmer welcome on your arrival in 
Schlossberg. You will see, by-the-bye, my little Ida, whom 


36 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


you have never seen ; and Ida’s mamma may be excused 
for believing that that will be a pleasure. As for her 
mamma, I feel as if you would hardly recognize her ; it 
must be ten, eleven — yes, eleven years since we met. A 
lifetime ! Alas ! how many things may not come and go 
in eleven years. 

‘‘Always, dear Robert, 

“Your affectionate sister, 

“ Emilia von Waldorf.” 

Mr. Holland laid aside this letter when he had read it, 
then took it up and glanced through it once more. De- 
cidedly something about it — it could hardly have been his 
sister s friendly words — the fine paper, possibly, the vague 
perfume, the coronet and monogram, excited his displeas- 
ure. He tore the paper across and across, replaced the 
fragments in the envelope, and drew his travelling writing- 
case toward him. He had the excellent habit of answer- 
ing his letters by return of post ; and this last letter he had 
read, first secured his attention now. 

“My Dear Emilia (he wrote) : — I have to thank you for 
your letter of welcome, which I have but now received. 
It is, as you say, many years since we met, and our paths 
and duties in life diverge so widely that it is improbable, I 
fear, that we shall in any case see much more of each 
other in the future than in the past. I will not, however, 
fail duly to apprise you of my arrival in Schlossberg, though 
I need not trouble you by accepting your kind offer to 
find me an apartment. My good friend, Mr. Sparrow, the 
English chaplain — you are perhaps acquainted with him — 
has already suggested an arrangement that, should it be 
carried out, might, I believe, suit me in every particular. 
I am none the less grateful to you, however, for your 
kind proposition. It may probably be some weeks before 
I arrive in Schlossberg. 

“ Always, my dear Emilia, 

“ Your affectionate brother, 

“Robert Holland.” 

Mr. Holland’s expression as he wrote this somewhat 
frigid epistle corresponded on the whole with its contents ; 
but his face relaxed, a smile and kindly look came into his 
eyes again as he took up the next letter that lay before 
him, that of his young parishioner. He smoothed it out 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


37 


on the table beside him to read it through once more be- 
fore dipping his pen in the ink to answer it. 

“My Dear Dulcie (he wrote then): — Your letter has 
brought me a great deal of pleasure on a somewhat lonely 
evening — for I often feel very lonely now that I am away 
from my home and my friends and my flock. And it has 
given me this pleasure because it proves to me that though 
1 am no longer near you, as I could wish to be, if God’s 
will had not otherwise ordained it, you have not forgotten 
my words ; and what is more, that you are trying to act upon 
them. I expect great help from you in the parish some 
day. Willing workers are always needed ; you have the 
will, I know, and you may rely upon my sympathy and en- 
couragement always in all your difficulties. Write to me 
when you will, dear child. I have had a journey of some 
length to-day, and am too much fatigued to send you 
more than these few lines ; but I wished to tell you that 
your letter has been a very welcome one, and that I look 
to hear from you again. 

“ And so God bless you, my dear Dulcie, 

“ Your affectionate friend and pastor, 

“ Robert Holland/* 

He had left his business letters to the last ; and yet, 
after all, they also must be answered. With a sigh of 
weariness the vicar took up his curate’s letter. It touched 
on a point of no great moment, perhaps ; but in its very 
insignificance lay the kernel of the matter — in the attempt 
to disregard his wishes so soon as his parish lay well be- 
hind him. A feeling akin to anger, mingled with a spasm 
of home-sickness, passed through the mind of the lonely 
man. With all the tenacity of purpose that made him rarely 
loosen his hold of a point he wished and intended to carry, 
he could yet show himself not unconciliatory in the face 
of opposition, and accomplish his end without giving too 
much offence. And now he felt persuaded that his dull- 
headed curate, an honest, hard-working young fellow, the 
best he had been able to find, would set everything at sixes 
and sevens, and have the whole parish overrun by Dissen- 
ters by the time he returned. Well, there was no help for 
it ; his work had broken him down. He looked at the 
letters again. Should the choir enter from the vestry or 
by the west door? If he were but at home, the vicar 
thought, he would settle the matter in two minutes, against 


ss 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


all the opposition in creation. But away from his parish, 
what could he do ? A very bitter feeling of disappointment, 
of helpless indignation, filled his heart. He had calculated 
on many things in leaving his home — on loneliness, on de- 
pression, on the languor of ill-health ; but a prompt dis- 
regard of his wishes in the ordering of his parish had es- 
caped Ids immediate prevision. Mr. Holland actually rose 
from his chair and moved toward his portrrianteau ; a few 
hours only would take him back to his parish. But in a 
moment he dropped into his seat again, leaning back with 
an air of exhaustion, spreading out his white, large-veined 
hands on the arms of the chair. No, he was too tired ; he 
could not go back ; and Richards and the rest of them 
must do what they would. After all, it was God’s will ; He 
knew best ; His will be accomplished. He took up his 
pen again, wrote a brief, sufficiently conciliatory letter to 
his churchwarden, and one briefer still to his curate. 

Dear Richards : Let the point be ; it is, as you say, 
not of vital importance. At any rate, at this distance 
I can do nothing. Barton must have his way ; but, as you 
will discover before long, his way is to be always in oppo- 
sition. 

“ Certainly old Simkins is not to have that extra shilling ; 
he has been agitating it for years, but I will not have it. 
And don’t be taken in by the Christian mission women 
when they call : I never give them a penny. 

I am too tired to write more to-night. Let me hear 
from you at Schwalbach ; but don’t worry me more than 
you can help. You must do the best you can. Yours, 

“R. H.” 


CHAPTER VIIL 

MR. HOLLAND SECURES HIMSELF ACxAINST LOSS. 

His correspondence ended, Mr. Holland leaned back in 
his chair with an air of fatigue and relief, and taking out a 
small pocketbook and pencil, began jotting down the day’s 
accounts. This is not in general considered an engaging 
occupation, but Mr. Holland, for one reason or anotiier, 
almost invariably found in it something soothing to his 
temper. He was not perhaps, properly speaking, much of 
a business man, though a certain methodical precision and 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


39 


orderly attention to details encouraged him to look upon 
himself as a man of capacity ; but tbe just balance of his 
expenditure with the money in his purse afforded him, in 
its kind, the same degree of pleasure that the just propor- 
tions of a work of art may afford to the contemplation of 
an artist. Only Mr. Holland preferred, perhaps, that the 
proportions should not be perfectly just. He had the 
habit in travelling of calculating narrowly beforehand his 
probable expenditure for the day, and often found a good 
deal of satisfaction in the fact that he had, after all, man- 
aged to save something on that narrow calculation. In 
the last resort one could generally, he found, economize 
something in fees to porters, a class of people given to 
grumble whatever is offered them, and whom, as individu- 
als, one is hardly likely to meet again. This evening, 
however, his pocketbook promised to afford him no satis- 
faction whatever, for he had no sooner taken it out than 
it brought vividly to his mind the lacune in his finances 
caused by that loan of a hundred-mark note to the heedless 
Elisabeth. It was not that he had forgotten it ; on tlie 
contrary, it had lain, a disagreeable consciousness, in his 
mind ever since ; but it was only now that he began to 
appreciate in its complete blankness the fact that in a 
moment of impulse he had thrown away five pounds. It 
is true that he was in no immediate want of the money, 
nor, indeed, likely to suffer acutely, even though, as would 
probably be the case, lie said to himself with some bitter- 
ness, he should never see it again. He was not wealthy, 
but neither was lie in poverty ; and unpleasant as such a 
loss would be — nobody likes to lose live pounds — it could 
not in the end affect him very materially. It was the sense 
of extravagance, of having spent his money and got noth- 
ing^ in return, that vexed his careful mind. He had, in- 
deed, rescued an inexperienced girl from a situation of no 
small embarrassment ; and naturally he did not repent of 
that. But the Vicar of Thornton Briars, who read out the 
parable of the Good Samaritan with devout intention and 
belief twice or thrice in the year, felt it a lively hardship 
that out of all the world on him should have fallen the 
expense of rescuing a careless girl from the results of her 
carelessness. 

The thing was done, however. He was noting it down 
with some disgust on the wrong side of his account, when 
a knock at the door interrupted him, and a waiter entered 
with a card. Mr. Holland glanced at the name inscribed : 


40 


THP. failure of ELISABETH. 


Otto Temple Holland ; and in the same moment his half- 
brother entered the room. 

No two men in the world could resemble each other less 
than Robert Holland and his half-brother. Otto Holland 
was a splendid-looking young fellow of five or six and 
twenty, tall, robust, and with an air of health and pros- 
perity that seemed to surround him like an atmosphere. 
His figure, though well proportioned, might later on 
incline to stoutness ; but at present he had still a youthful 
alertness and activity of movement. He was dressed and 
wore his clothes like a well-dressed Englishman ; but 
something in the cut of his mustache and of his strong 
curling brown liair gave him a foreign aspect. The con- 
trast, I say, between himself and his half-brother with his 
black grizzled hair, pallid complexion, and feeble physique, 
was so marked that no one would have suspected the tie 
of relationship between them. Robert, in fact, took after 
the old grandfather in Shoe Lane, while Otto strongly 
resembled his father. Captain Holland. He was extreme- 
ly handsome, and, without being a coxcomb, had an air of 
perfect good-humor and content with himself and the 
world that gave him the appearance of knowing it. It 
was the air, in short, of a man who takes naturally to his 
neighbors’ llattery, and to whom few things could be so 
incomprehensible as a quarrel of any kind with life. 

This prosperous personage laid down his hat and cane, 
and greeted liis brother with much cordiality. Good 
heavens! Robert, how ill you look !” was his first remark, 
in a tone of easy comment ; “or is it only this abomina- 
ble light ? What on earth possesses you to come to a hole 
of an inn like this ? And when you have a second can- 
dle, why in Heaven’s name don’t you light it ? So, that’s 
better.” ^ 

Mr. Holland took the second candle from his brother’s 
hand and blew it out. “ Excuse me, Otto,” he said, “but 
it is useless to burn more than one candle. There is 
enough light to talk by, and it is only an extra charge in 
the bill.” 

Otto Holland stared, then broke into a vigorous laugh. 
“Good Lord, an extra charge in the bill!” he said; “an 
extra charge — how much, fifty centimes, seventy, a franc ? 
It’s worth sitting in the dark for. Well. Robert, you’re 
not changed in the least, I see ; it’s refreshing to find you 
still at the same point. You are looking ill, though. 
What’s wrong with you ? ” 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


41 

Overwork, prostration,” said the clergyman, leaning 
back in his chair. I’ve broken down — that’s all.” 

Ah, well,” said the other, good naturedly, “ a winter 
abroad — a complete holiday, you know — that will set you 
up again. Suppose you come over to my place now. My 
wife will be delighted to see you, and we shan’t be in your 
way, you know. In point of fact. I’m never there if I can 
help it. It was my father-in-law, you know, who bought 
the place for us ; he lives close by ; but I hate a country 
life. We shall be in Vienna again in a month or so ; and 
I’m thinking of buying a house in Venice.” 

“ In Venice ? ” said his brother. “ Why in Venice ? ” 

Well, Venice or Rome or Naples — somewhere in Italy, 
in short. I’m not particular ; and Venice is handy to Vienna. 
One might have one in Naples, too, if that were all. I 
like Italy, and I hate hotels. One ought to have a house 
of one’s own wherever one goes ; it’s the only way to be 
comfortable.” 

‘‘Ah !” said Mr. Holland. He sat silent for a minute. 
“You have not changed, at any rate, Otto,” he said. “You 
have never, I suppose, reflected on the responsibilities of 
a great fortune ? ” 

The young man gave another laugh. 

“ If I haven’t, it’s not for want of your telling me,” he 
said, good-humoredly. “ Now, my idea of the responsibil- 
ities of a fortune is to spend your money if you have it ; 
and that’s not a thing that can be done in a place like this. 
Besides, I hate a country life. A week or two of shooting 

in England is another matter ; but here ” He made a 

grimace, and rising, took the second candle, which was 
spreading its cheap odor of snuffed candle-wick through 
the room, and put it carefully outside the door. “ Oblige 
mCy Robert,” he said, coming back and taking out a cigar- 
case, “by not blowing out a candle again while I am in the 
room. You compel me to light a cigar, and no doubt you 
object to cigars. No ? Well, as I was saying, why don’t you 
come out to my place ? You would have the house pretty 
well to yourself, and could burn as many candles as you 
like, without having to think of the bill. You’d better 
come.” 

Mr. Holland smiled feebly. 

“Thank you, Otto,” he said ; “but my plans are already 
made. The doctor, as I wrote to you, has ordered me to 
Schwalbach first, and then, as you know, I go to Schloss- 
berg for the winter. I shall be there in six weeks or so,” 


42 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


“ And a precious dull hole you’ll be in,” said his brother, 
striking a match and applying it to his cigar. “ Mathilde 
and I have just been staying there — we were there, in 
point of fact, when I got your letter. You know, of 
course, that Emilia keeps on her house still, though what 
possesses her to stay in Schlossberg, when she has the 
world to choose from, I don’t know. In short, she’s there. 
You’ve heard from her ? ” 

“ Yes, I have heard from her,” said Mr. Holland. 

“Well,” said his brother, “if you want anything done, 
Emilia will do it for you, you know. She charged me to 
tell you so. You’ll want rooms taken for you somewhere, 
I dare say, in some hotel or pension. You won’t want 
much of a place, perhaps ? Some cheap pension, eh ? ” 

“ Where do you stay in Schlossberg ? ” said Mr. Holland, 
dryly. 

“ I ? Oh, I ahvays stay at the Kaiserhof. But I don’t 
recommend it to you, my dear fellow; it’s one of the 
dearest hotels in Europe. Not bad, either, as such places 
go ; they’re all beastly, of course. But your cheap hotels 
are simply poison. To be sure, it depends upon what you 
are accustomed to.” 

“Ah — well, I won’t trouble either you or Emilia,” said 
Mr. Holland. “ I care for poison as little as you do, and 
have no intention of trying it at present. My friend the 
English chaplain at Schlossberg has promised to find me 
a suitable accommodation.” 

“As you will,” said the other, indifferently. He gave an 
immense yawn, and, throwing back his head, sat puffing 
at his cigar for a minute in silence. Conversation with his 
brother presented some difficulties, apparently. “ Well, 
I’m really glad to have seen you again, Robert,” he said, 
at last, “ though I should have liked to find you in better 
ease. Apart from I'ooms, don’t forget to apply to Emilia 
if you are in want of anything.” He looked at his watch. 
“ By-the-bye,” he said, “you know that Gordon is living 
now in Schlossberg ? ” 

“ I gathered it,” said Mr. Holland, with some stiffness, 
“from Emilia’s letter. She mentions his name. But I 
have heard nothing of him for a long time.” 

“ Ah ! I remember ; you don’t like Gordon. Now, I 
wonder why the deuce you don’t like Gordon ? He’s the 
best fellow I know, worth two of you or me. Do you owe 
him money, by chance ? Excuse me,” at a movement of 
his brother’s, “ but the only reason I can imagine for 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


43 


really hating a man would be to owe him money.” He 
leaned forward to shake the ash from his cigar. “ If you 
did owe him money — ” he said, presently. “ Oh, I 
don’t mean you in particular, my dear fellow. Bless my 
soul ! I’m not accusing you. I mean, if anyone owed 
him money, now would be the time to pay him back, for 
I fancy he’s pretty hard up. You know, of course, they’ve 
lost all their fortune ?” 

“ I have heard of it,” said Mr. Holland, distantly. ‘‘ I 
am ignorant of the details.” 

Well, they have ; every penny, as one says. There’s 
a sort of hope that Gordon’s fortune — what came from his 
mother, you know — may be got back later; different in- 
vestments, and so on ; but my uncle’s is gone, gone. He 
doesn’t care, he says ; and upon my word, I believe he 
doesn’t. But Gordon does ; he takes it awfully to heart, 
poor fellow. He got a lectureship, professorship, I don’t 
know what, at Schlossberg, and preaches on Oriental lan- 
guages for bread and cheese. He vows he likes it — that 
part of it, I mean ; but I’m glad I don’t stand in his shoes. 
To be sure, I shouldn’t know what to say.” 

“I don’t see — ” began Mr. Holland. He cleared his 
throat, and began again. “I fail to see,” he said, “the 
especial hardship of Gordon’s having to work for his liv- 
ing more than other people.” 

“Oh, well,” said Otto, easily, “it all depends on what 
you’re used to. If you’re brought up in the lap of luxury, 
as the romances call it, it makes a difference, I suppose — 
so the romances say, at least. Not that I’ve tried it, nor 
mean to try it of my own free will. I’m a philosopher, 
though you mightn’t believe it ; and so long as I live in 
this dull world I mean to have the best it gives.” He 
looked at his watch again, and took up his hat. “Talking 
about money,” he said, “ are you in want of any, by chance ? 
Just say the word, you know ; it makes no difference to 
me.” 

The Vicar of Thornton Briars hesitated. He was in no 
actual want of money, as has been said, and he was af- 
fronted by his half-brother’s easy arrogance. But that 
hundred-mark note — it pricked like a thorn in his mind ; 
the present loss, and the doubt whether he w’ould ever see 
it again. His brother might as well make up the deficit ; 
why not ? 

“ If you could lend me ” he said, doubtfully. “ I 

shouldn’t ask it but that I am unexpectedly out of pocket 


44 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


through the carelessness of another person ; but if you 
could lend me a hundred-mark note without inconveni- 
ence ” 

Young Holland burst into a laugh. 

A hundred-mark note! Half a dozen, if you like, my 
dear fellow. Here, Tve just been to my banker, by good 
luck — how many will you have ? Anything up to a hun- 
dred pounds is ahfrays at your service. I’m in earnest, you 
know ; upon my word 1 am. I know wliat parsons are — 
I know what you are, old fellow. A stray fifty or two 
would never come amiss, eh ? ” 

I am much obliged, Otto,” said the clergyman, stiffly ; 
‘‘ but I named a hundred-mark note. It will amply suffice 
for my present needs, and it shall be returned as soon as 
possible.” 

“ You’ll return it when you want to quarrel with me,” 
said the other, good-naturedly. He put up his pocket- 
book again. Well, good-by, Robert, and good luck go 
with you. Don’t kill yourself drinking those beastly wa- 
ters the doctors are so fond of ordering ; and if you ever 
care to come over to my place, you’ve only to let me know, 
you know.” 

He nodded, and left the room. 


CHAPTER IX. 

A RAPTUROUS FREEDOM. 

No brighter sun, I dare say, ever rose on Schlossberg 
than that which greeted Elisabeth’s opening eyes the 
morning after her arrival. She sprang from her bed and 
ran with bare feet across the polished floor to throw her 
window wide open. What a world — ah, what a world ! 
The sun, but just lifted above the high dormer roofs, shone 
warm and clear upon the broad Place ; the femntain flowed 
and sparkled, the trees cast long shadows across the wide 
pavement ; there was an early clatter of wooden shoes, a 
clank of pails and pitchers set down upon the stone rim of 
the basin where the water splaslied and circled ; and everv- 
where, above house-roof and gable, the fresh greenness of 
the forest land. A magic world! In trembling haste 
Elisabeth dressed herself, and stealing half guiltily from 


THE FAILURE OF ELISA'RETH. 


45 


her room (the house was still so closed and hushed ; the 
deep and silent breath of night still held it, one would say), 
she stepped noiselessly down the shuttered staircase, out 
into the open air. She crossed the Place, she passed down 
the wide street, half in sunshine, half in shadow now, 
along which she had wandered the night before, enchanted 
and forlorn ; and taking the first path tliat presented itself 
from the town, mounted upward througli the forest. It 
was hardly yet six o’clock, and except for the joyous chirp 
and twitter of the birds as they hopped from branch to 
branch in the level sunlight overhead, the woods lay deep 
around her, hardly yet awakened fnjm their sleep. The 
weeds and long grasses still hung heavily, drenched with 
dew ; her shoes were soaked, the liem of her frock wet 
through in a moment as she ran along ; the air tasted fresh 
as in early dawn. Elisabeth wandered on and on, now 
climbing upward by some wide cart-rutted track scored 
by the weight of a hundred tree-trunks dragged from the 
heights ; now brushing her way through narrower paths, 
where twigs and leaves swung sharp across her face ; or 
plunging deep into some shadowed hollow, where her feet 
sank in treacherous moss, and a low murmur-declared the 
presence of a trickling, half-choked stream. The trees 
crowded round her, before, behind, on every side, or fell 
apart to show some hollowed dell set close and green 
among the thick-set boughs, or glimpses down some mys- 
terious glade, opening and lost again, that seemed to hold 
the deepest secrets of the woods. Ah ! hidden secrets of 
the woods ! Elisabeth, peering here and there, now fol- 
lowing the beaten track, now straying down those leafy 
glades, wandered enchanted on. What was it that she saw } 
Neither elf nor goblin crossed her path, one may be sure ; 
no shaggy monster, with a golden glitter piercing some 
crack in his horrid hide, approached her with gentle action 
and strange eyes ; no slender maiden clad in sorry weeds, 
with garments woven of the sun and moon and stars held 
in the hollow of her htind ; no cottage even, with its 
spreading roof-tree laden with gold and silver fruit. And 
yet, one and all, they wove a web that was around her as 
she went ; her gods had passed, and the scent of their rai- 
ment, the echo of their footsteps, was in the air — no pure 
harmonious Grecian vision, but the sweet homeliness, the 
grotesque jollity, the alluring terrors of the Middle Ages; 
a web woven of sunshine and darkness, of shadowing 
leaves and shifting gold, and gnarled and twisted boles 


46 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


and branches. A magic land — the enchanted land of 
youth. 

Elisabeth, wandering onward at her will, had almost 
from the beginning lost all track of where she was. At 
first that was only a charm the more ; but presently, as the 
sun grew hotter and she herself grew tired, she began to 
feel a trifle scared. The forest-land was broken and very 
irregular, rising always, but dipping again to hollows lying 
between the hills. Elisabeth climbed one and another 
height in hope of gaining some clearer view of where she 
was, but finding herself baffled continually, either by the 
thick growth of the trees, or by the lie of the ground, that 
showed her only stretch after stretch of densely wooded, 
undulating country, sinking and swelling against the sky, 
a hundred imaginations began to run riot through her 
brain. What if she were lost indeed — entangled among 
forest ways, compelled to wander on and on, to die at last 
of hunger in the strange recesses of the woods ? Her 
feet began to fail, her head was growing dizzy, when a 
clearer gleam showed before her through the trees ; and 
the next moment, emerging from the forest tracks, she 
found herself confronted by the huge mass of a ruined 
castle, scarred and shattered, rent as by thunderbolts, 
flanked by a spacious terrace that hung above a green 
river, whose endless curves wound through a wide historic 
plain toward a blue distance of far historic hills. Elisa- 
beth knew where she was now. Turning and returning 
on her own steps, she had made, after all, no great prog- 
ress in all these hours, and below her lay Schlossberg, 
steep-roofed and towered, with its clanging clocks and 
bells, nestling at the feet of the vanquished fortress on its 
giant rock above. 

Elisabeth knew where she was ; and of all the pleasures 
she had promised herself in coming abroad, not the least, 
assuredly, was the pleasure she would find in contemplat- 
ing the ruins of Schlossberg. But it must be owned that 
at that moment no sight was so welcome to her as that of 
a modest little restaurant clinging to a shattered corner of 
the building, with chairs and round-topped tables set out- 
side, an alluring scent of coffee in the air, and a waiter 
lounging in the doorway. Elisabeth, who with her healthy 
young appetite of seventeen had not yet broken her fast 
that day, felt irresistibly drawn toward the spot. She ap- 
proached with hesitation, indeed ; there was, probably, she 
felt, something wicked in the mere idea, qf breakfa^tiug 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


47 


alone and in the open air. Still, when one was so hungry 
— she glanced about her; not a soul was in sight. Elis- 
abeth hesitated no longer ; with a courage not far removed 
from recklessness she approached the waiter and demanded 
a cup of coffee and a roll. 

The waiter (it seemed strange to Elisabeth) found noth- 
ing extraordinary in the request, and disappeared to ex- 
ecute her order. Elisabeth seated herself, pushed back 
her hat from her heated forehead and disordered hair, 
and resting her elbows on one of the little round tables, 
sat leaning forward to enjoy the sunshine, the view, the 
wide morning air, the exquisite sense, too, of freedom and 
escape from all the accustomed conventions of her life, 
implied in this proposed a/ fresco breakfast by herself out- 
side the Castle restaurant of Schlossberg. The thought 
passed through her mind that in the whole world not one 
person knew where she was at that moment. It might be 
hard to explain why Elisabeth found this thought so ex- 
hilarating ; but she did to an extraordinary degree. Her 
spirits rose from one minute to another ; she felt happy to 
the point of ecstasy ; she had never thought so much hap- 
piness as this could come to her in all her life. 

A footstep near at hand startled her ; someone was ap- 
proaching. It was no very formidable apparition : a 
young man in alight morning suit and wide-awake, with a 
book sticking out of his pocket, who, just glancing at 
Elisabeth as he passed, seated himself at a table behind 
her, drew out his book and began to read. But the mere 
sight of a stranger was enough to startle Elisabeth out of her 
dream of felicity. All her courage seemed to crumple up 
and vanish ; all the terrors and conventions of her life rose 
and stood before her in stiff array. Forgetful of coffee and 
roll and hunger, she sprang to her feet and fled. She fled ; 
down the broad zizgag road leading to the town, through 
the streets, crowded with market people now, where more 
than once she missed and had to ask her way, never paus- 
ing till she was safe within the shelter of the hotel, within 
the four walls of her own room. 

Here the soothing influence of the quiescent chairs and 
tables that does so much to help us on our tumultuous prog- 
ress through life calmed her by degrees. She took off 
her hat, smoothed her untidy hair, and presently stood re- 
volving in her mind what she would do next. The day 
lay before her, to dispose of as she pleased, it would ap- 
pear ; Elisabeth had no fear but that she would be able to 


48 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


dispose of it delightfully ! But a task also lay before her 
— of that she was well aware ; one, too, that had made a 
gloomy background to all the sunshine of the morning ; 
she must write to her aunt, and tell her all that had occur- 
red. Ah ! no, she was not really free ; nay, in this changed 
aspect of affairs. Miss Elder dead, her pension broken up, 
wliat more likely than that a recall to England might come, 
and all this treasure of months she had counted over so often 
melt away and disappear ? Elisabeth felt quite pale and 
sick at the very thought. Still, the letter was not yet writ- 
ten ; nor, when written, could an answer come for two or 
three days at least. Elisabeth took new courage from that 
reflection ; she would presently, she said to herself, write 
her letter ; but first of all she must have something to eat. 

She ran down the wide shining staircase, and was guided 
by an obliging waiter to the dining-room, where, in ac- 
cordance with his suggestions, she ordered an omelette, a 
cutlet and some coffee ; and with a more certain prospect 
of breakfast than before, sat down at a small table to await 
it. The room engaged her attention first ; long and lofty, 
it had more mirrors and gilding than she had ever seen in 
lier life before. It was like a palace, Elisabeth thought. 
One side was mirrored and panelled ; on the other, fre- 
quent windows stood open to the ground, and led on to a 
wide gravel terrace, bordered by brilliant flower-beds, and 
overlooking an open space of gardens. Two ladies, one 
youthful and dressed in white, the other much older, were 
pacing to and fro, engaged in conversation. Before them, 
along the sunny path, scampered a child of five years old, 
in a loose white cambric frock confined round the waist 
by a big blue sash. Twice the two ladies passed the win- 
dow near which Elisabeth was seated ; the third time, still 
talking, they paused in the wide embrasure, as though to 
enter. The room, to their vision, was empty, Elisabeth 
sitting a little withdrawn, behind the ample curtain. She 
had drawn back, indeed, at their approach with one of her 
sudden shy movements ; but not before her observation, 
so alert in this new world surrounding her, had made her 
acquainted with the appearance of two people of whom 
she was destined to see much, and with whose names, at 
least, the reader has already some slight familiarity. 

The younger of the two was rather above the middle 
height, and wore a fresh white morning dress, whose 
fashion, though it was sufficiently fashionable, was less 
noticeable than the grace it took from a form, slender, yet 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


49 


nobly and generously porportioned. Neither dark nor 
dazzlingly fair, and with features of no classic regularity, 
her face had the open sweetness and charm of a summer 
rose. Her earliest youth was behind her ; she might have 
been eight or nine and twenty, but the years, so far, had 
brought only a fuller bloom, and left no unwelcome sign 
of their progress. If Nature, as one says, shows herself 
not unfrequently but a grudging and malicious step-mother 
toward her children, giving this one a hump, that one a 
crooked nature, a third a sickly frame, her kindliest mood 
must have animated her when she bestowed her gifts on 
Emilia von Waldorf. Her blooming cheek, her waving 
chestnut hair, the clear beam in lier eye, all told of per- 
fect health, of a temperament where nothing morbid or 
sickly could find a place. It was remarked of her that 
for a twelvemonth after her husband’s death she hardly 
smiled ; and in a nature in which sweet and reasonable 
laughter rose as naturally as the fresh bubbles of a spring, 
no funeral elegy could better liave indicated the measure 
of her grief. But that was nearly five years ago, and a 
character so well-balanced as Madame von Waldorf’s had 
necessarily recovered its equilibrium in a world where her 
interests were still sufficiently varied. The happiest con- 
ditions aided her in life, her gracious form, her serene 
temper, her clear and cultivated intelligence — an intelli- 
gence not too original and acute, but one that placed her 
easily en rapport with every intelligence that crossed her 
path. That she should have had various worshippers was 
inevitable. That those worshippers, finding themselves 
met with a frank and equable kindliness only, should at 
times have termed her heartless, was inevitable also ; and 
there was, perhaps, some truth in the charge. Heartless, 
in the sense of wanting a heart, Madame von Waldorf was 
not ; but her heart, in so far as it concerned herself, was 
kept, if one may so term it, for herself ; such tears as she 
had shed had been tragic, but the world had had no part 
in them. With the frequent miseries or the rarer joys of 
a sensitive imagination she had nothing to do ; they were 
unknown, almost incomprehensible to her ; it was a side 
of human nature with its defects and its qualities that 
remained for her a blank. It is true, the incessant cob- 
webs that such an imagination weaves for itself across 
life’s path would often vanish, swept away by a breath, at 
her approach ; but such cobwebs are dear to the soul that 
weaves them ; to have them ignored is apt to leave a point 

4 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


So 

of unreasonable soreness. The world might grow brighter 
by her presence, but gloom has its votaries also, especially 
in these days, when the liarmonious is out of fashion. 
Someone had once told Madame von Waldorf that she 
belonged to a past generation. She had laughed, and in- 
quired, Did she look so old ? She felt young, and suffi- 
ciently modern ! But there was some truth in the remark. 
She had the serenity, the freedom from intellectual respon- 
sibility, together with the intelligence of leisure, that 
belonged to women in an earlier and happier period of 
the world’s history. 

Such was Emilia von Waldorf. 

Her companion was very different ; a woman between 
fifty and sixty, with a broad, benevolent, humorous face. 
She wore no cap, and her brown hair, untouched by gray, 
was arranged in wide bands that covered her ears after a 
fashion of some thirty or forty years ago. She was attired 
in a drab, printed mousseline-de-laine gown, and carried a 
drab-colored parasol. She was the Baroness von Leuwine, 
a woman whose past had afforded her a very varied experi- 
ence, and who had gained a character for originality 
through the independence with which she confronted life 
— from her fashion of dressing her hair, to her habit of 
spending her leisure hours in a brown holland over-dress 
modelling in clay. And as she was destined to play a 
part of some significance in my heroine’s fortunes, I may as 
well, whilst she is standing in the sunshine on the terrace 
of the Kaiserhof, devote a fresh chapter to some account 
of that past, and of its results on herself. 


CHAPTER X. 

BARONESS VON LEUWINE. 

Baroness Von Leuwine had led a life entirely unlike 
any she could have planned for herself, yet one that so 
admirably suited her peculiar temperament that, with the 
best planning in the world, she could hardly have schemed 
more successfully. 

It must always be a nice question liow far our natural 
perversity frustrates the schemes of Providence on our 
behalf ; and considering the enormous amount of machin- 
ery implied in the normal movement of life, too inquisitive 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 51 

a scrutiny into the schemes of Providence may as well be 
at once abandoned as impertinent on the part of us short- 
sighted mortals, as the preachers say. In the Baroness’s 
case, however, there had apparently been no final frustra- 
tion througli perversity or otherwise ; for at fifty-six her 
life was both happy and admirable — talents wisely culti- 
vated, wealth wisely spent, and original and benevolent 
spirit both giving and receiving happiness. It is true that 
the fairies in attending her cradle had presented her with 
two or three of the best gifts with which humanity can be 
endowed : sound health, a love of art, and an absolute 
indifference to the world’s opinion. Of other gifts they 
appeared at first a trifle chary ; tlie Baroness was of noble 
birth, but without fortune ; her face, that in later years 
pleased througli its character and benevolent kindliness 
of expression, was singularly plain in her girlhood ; her 
parents died when she was a child, and she struggled up 
into the world under the supervision of an indifferent 
though not unkindly guardian. At seventeen she fell in 
love, with the wisdom and experience characteristic of that 
age, with the young Baron von Leuvvine, half German, 
half Pole, as nobly born but not much richer than herself, 
a genius to boot, writing sonnets to the moon with a facil- 
ity little short of miraculous to the inexperienced Irma. 
No one so far had admired Baron von Leu wine’s poetry 
quite as much as she did ; he, in turn, deigned to approve 
of the works in clay and plaster with which the young girl 
had begun to adorn a room she liked to call her studio. 
In a word, the young couple were married, and eternal 
felicity began. The genius turned out but a poor kind of 
fellow after all ; he was weakly, he was limp ; he found 
poverty for two more insupportable than poverty for one ; 
the moon ceased to inspire him ; he left off looking at it, 
and took to smoking opium with closed windows instead. 
It was a digringolade from the first month of their marriage ; 
and the Baroness took the whole of the cracked and sink- 
ing palace of bliss on her hardy young shoulders. She 
cleared out an attic and took to modelling her clay again. 
But, alas ! her skill (though that improved with time) 
halted sadly behind her need of money, to say nothing of 
her inspiration ; not a groschen could she earn. Then she 
turned herself to taking portraits. I used to make 
portrait-medallions at two florins the piece,” she would 
say, in recounting these experiences of her youth in after 
years. “ I began with the porter's children ; before long 


52 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


1 had the whole quarter on my hands. But for my hus- 
band’s failing healtii it was the happiest period of my life. 
Only the resources of the quarter began to come to an 
end.” Then taking out a florin she would add : “That 
was my very last florin ; I was reflecting how I should 
spend it to the best advantage, when the turn in my 
fortunes came.” 

The turn was effected by no very romantic or miraculous 
means. It was simply through the arrival in Vienna of a 
rich old cousin and godmother, the widow of an ambassa- 
dor lately deceased in St. Petersburg. This excellent old 
lady nearly fainted with horror when she heard now, for 
tlie first time, of the straits to which lier noble young kins- 
woman was reduced. With benevolence animated by the 
very stiffest of blue blood, she flew to the rescue, and 
insisted on installing the Baron and his wife in an apart- 
ment in her own spacious mansion. Her gray curls 
trembled with emotion as she thought of the indignity 
brought upon her house by that terrible dabbling in clay 
and plaster. She began by forbidding her god-daughter 
ever to touch that soul-and-finger-soiling clay again ; but 
there the young Baroness made a stand. She accepted a 
home for her sickly husband; she insisted on the right of 
working for herself. “Give me the means of studying as 
I ought,” she said; “it is all I ask.” In this conflict of 
two wills, the younger woman’s was the stronger; she 
gained her point, and having gained it, with the com- 
punction of a strong and generous nature, she offered to 
resign it again. Finally a compromise was agreed upon. 
Irma was to be allowed to study, but she was not to be 
rdlowed to work. “No more porter’s children — that I 
absolutely forbid,” said the old ambassadress. “When 
you are in a position to demand five thousand florins for a 
bust, we will see ; nothing less.” In the meantime, the 
young Baron and his wife were treated by the old woman 
as her own children, and as such took their place in 
Vienna society. It was not the liappiest, it was the least 
happy, period of the Baroness’s life. A hundred times she 
regretted her attic and her porter’s children ; for her hus- 
band, always weak, proved himself incapable of support- 
ing prosperity. He fell into dissipation ; he neglected his 
wife more and more. Every illusion of her girlhood fell 
dead; it was from her husband she had to take lessons in 
the worst side of human life and human nature. Ten 
years after their first meeting her godmother died, leaving 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


53 


the whole of her immense fortune to her adopted daughter. 
A month later her husband was dead also, his sickly con- 
stitution destroyed by vice and dissipation. 

The Baroness was then about thirty. She had lived 
through a vulgar tragedy of marriage, she told herself 
with something of horror ; the rest of her life should, 
if possible, be arranged better. She was in no want 
of interests. She had never attained to the highest 
skill in the art she had chosen ; she could never have 
felt herself justified in demanding five thousand florins 
for a bust; but fortunately — or, perhaps, indeed, one 
should say unfortunately — a passion for an art is not 
at all incompatible with a lack of the highest touch of 
genius. The Baroness not only had a passion, but a tal- 
ent sufficiently remarkable to justify the time she con- 
tinued to spend in her favorite occupation. She had a 
sentiment about it, too ; it had helped her through the 
worst straits in her life ; there would be a sort of ingrati- 
tude in abandoning it when she no longer depended on it 
for daily bread. At any rate — to give the excuses she gave 
herself ; there were moments when she felt she needed 
some — she kept on her studio, worked in it when she could, 
and lent it pretty freely at other times to struggling and 
impecunious artists. But her principal interest and occu- 
pation lay elsewhere. She presently founded, that is to 
say, first in Vienna, and subsequently, as a sort of subsid- 
iary branch of the first, in Schlossberg, an institution for 
the daughters of poor clergymen — Madame von Leuwine 
was a Lutheran by birth and conviction. Henceforward 
she devoted the greater part of her time, her money, her 
thoughts, to these two establishments, spending her win- 
ters in Vienna, her summers in Schlossberg, in which 
latter place she was, later on, to find in Madame von Wal- 
dorf a valuable helper. 

It was about a year after her husband’s death that the 
Baroness adopted her nephew, Karl von Waldorf, whose 
wife Emilia Holland afterwards became. He was the son 
of a widowed sister much older than herself, whom she 
had scarcely known, and who had lately died in Berlin, 
leaving two or three children indifferently provided for. 
Karl was the youngest, a lad about twelve years old when 
he came to Vienna, where he was destined to grow up — 
and presently to die, poor fellow — in a little circle of inti- 
mate friends the Baroness had gathered round her. In 
this circle, consisting of a number of charming people, 


54 the failure OF ELISABETH, 

none were on terms of closer intimacy with the Baroness 
than the entire Holland family. The several children, 
Emilia and Otto Holland, their cousin Gordon Temple, 
and Karl von Waldorf, were as much together as their 
varying ages and occupations would permit. Gordon 
Temple — he was an only child — was, like his cousin Otto, 
educated in England ; but he went to Harrow instead of to 
Eton, to Cambridge instead of to Oxford ; and in any case 
the five or six years’ difference in their age must have 
widely separated the career of each. Young Count von 
Waldorf was educated in Germany ; but the families con- 
tinued to meet at intervals in Vienna during holidays and 
vacations ; and even after Emilia Holland had married 
young Von Waldorf, even after Gordon Temple had left 
college and taken, as he did, to travelling through the 
world, they still regarded Vienna as their home and occa- 
sional meeting-place. It was one of those happy and in- 
timate arrangements that time breaks up with a will, one 
sometimes thinks, but whose hundred kindly associations 
are apt in defying time, keeping their memory fresh and 
poignant in the heart of the survivors. 

This one, through death and separation, had been broken 
up some years before that August morning when we first 
make acquaintance with Baroness von Leuwine ; but the 
latest catastrophe was still fresh of date. It was the great 
failure of the bank in which Captain Holland’s brother-in- 
law, Mr. Temple, had been partner, involving the loss of 
his entire fortune. The failure was an honorable one, and 
the old man, at any rate, had nothing to do with it ; he was 
a man greatly addicted to books, at no time a great lover 
of affairs, and had early ceased to take any very active 
share in the management of the bank, though he con- 
tinued to reside in Vienna. Later on, a severe accident, 
that lamed him permanently, making him more infirm 
than his years warranted, induced him to withdraw from 
business altogether. But his money had remained in the 
bank, and went in the general crash ; there was no alter- 
ing that. The house in Vienna was given up, and Gordon 
Temple, accepting a lectureship offered him at Schloss- 
berg, brought his father there with him to live. This is a 
bald account of what, to the younger man, seemed a tragic 
cutting of his life in two. He was a remarkably clever 
young fellow,, had made a brilliant career at Cambridge, 
and on leaving college had declined to enter the bank — 
that had been the first idea of his family — but letting it 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


55 


take care of itself so far as he was concerned, devoted the 
years of his youth and opulence to travelling over the 
world, where he saw a variety of things with a pair of 
singularly keen eyes, devoting himself finally to the East 
and the study of Oriental languages. He hated poverty 
as much as a man who has never had to think twice about 
the value of a sovereign can hate it ; he gave himself no 
airs of philosophy about that ; but it mattered, after all 
little enough to him individually. He was used to rough- 
ing it on his travels, and in any case he was young. It 
was on his father’s account he hated it most ; it was piti- 
ful, it was tragic ; once he had shed tears of rage at the 
thought of the infirm old man wanting a single one of the 
luxuries to which for seventy-eight years lie had been ac- 
customed ; and though he, Gordon, had been devotedly 
attached to his mother, he found himself thanking Heaven 
she had died some three or four years previously, and been 
spared this sordid misery. His life, I say, had fallen cut 
in two ; but he did what he could. He settled his father 
in a small apartment in Schlossberg — that his cousin Emi- 
lia lived there (she was extremely fond of her uncle) had 
largely influenced his decision in the matter — and set to 
work at his lectures. 

But we have wandered altogether from the Baroness, who 
has been too long left standing in the sunshine on the 
garden terrace of the Kaiserhof. We may return to her 
with the more pertinence that, at the very moment we 
abandoned her, she was talking with Madame von Wal- 
dorf about one or two of the people who most concern 
us in this little history. 


CHAPTER XI. 

ELISABETH MAKES FRIENDS AGAINST HER WILL. 

“ Don’t talk to me, Emilia !” the Baroness was saying ; 
“ I never could tolerate your brother Robert. Oh, I really 
am as charitable as most people, which is not saying much ; 
though for that matter heaven preserve me from being 
one of your pseudo-charitable people who pretend they 
can never see a fault in anyone ; they put me out of all 
patience, I confess. Either they are idiots and don’t know 


56 


THE FAIL [/EE OF ELISABETH. 


black from white, or they devote all their native malice to 
putting one in the wrong because one happens to be a lit- 
tle more candid than themselves. But to return to your 
brother Robert ; I knew little enough of him, it is true, 
but I declare that all that little was bad. He is underbred, 
my dear child, he is underbred — there you have the mat- 
ter in a word. I don’t say he has no good qualities ; I 
should be sorry to think it of your father’s son, thougli, for 
that matter, he has nothing in common with your side of 
his family ; but in the little I saw of him, I protest I was 
unable to find them out.” 

“That is, perhaps, because you saw so little of him,” 
said her companion, smiling. “Robert has several good 
qualities, I assure you, Aunt Irma. Ida — oh, that naughty 
Ida! she is picking tlie flowers again. Let them be, my 
child, and come into breakfast ; it will be ready immedi- 
ately.” 

The child came running along the sunny path, and 
flinging herself headlong against her mother — she was 
Madame von Waldorf’s only child ; a little son had died 
in early infancy — buried her face in her skirts, and, cling- 
ing to them with both hands, let herself be dragged into 
the dining-room. The Baroness was already seated at one 
of the smaller tables, not far from that at which Elisabeth 
awaited the arrival of her coffee ; but Madame von Wal- 
dorf paused for a moment within the open window to dis- 
engage her dress from her small daughter’s grasp, and 
take one of the little clinging hands in hers. As she did 
so she caught sight of Elisabeth, glanced at her, then 
glanced again with a little smile, as though in apology for 
having thought herself alone with her companion. Elisa- 
beth raised her eyes from a Tauchnitz volume beside her 
plate, which she had opened to beguile the interval of 
waiting, and remained fixed for a moment in admiring 
contemplation. Never yet in her short experience had 
she seen anyone of so much charm and sweetness of aspect 
as Madame von Waldorf. In a moment she blushed and 
dropped her eyes again, whilst Madame von Waldorf, un- 
conscious of the impression she had made, passed on to 
the table where the Baroness was seated, and lifting Ida 
on to a chair, began pulling down her frock and smooth- 
ing her disordered locks. The child, rosy-cheeked, bright- 
eyed, chestnut-haired, planted firmly on her fat little legs, 
seemed the charming copy in small of her charming 
mother. 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


57 


Naughty Ida/’ said Madame von Waldorf, ‘‘to pick the 
flowers ! What would Herr Schmidt say ?” 

“They’re for you, mamma,” said Ida, quite unrepentant, 
and cramming them, heads and stems together, into the 
front of her mother’s white dress. 

“Yes, my child ; but you mustn’t pick Herr Schmidt’s 
flowers for me or for anyone. Look at Aunt Irma ; she 
is quite shocked too.” 

The child turned round to look at her aunt, but appar- 
ently discovered no terrors in her countenance, burst into 
a jolly laugh ; and setting her elbows on the table, became 
absorbed in the contemplation of a mutton cutlet that her 
mother was cutting up for her, an occupation in which 
Ida took the most lively interest, and concerning which 
she had several suggestions to offer. 

The Baroness meanwhile resumed the conversation. 

“With regard to your brother Robert, Emilia ” she 

began. 

“ Ah, my dear aunt, let my poor brother be ! ” answered 
Madame von Waldorf with some gaiety ; “ he is not so bad, 
believe me. I know very little of him, of course. I have 
hardly seen him since I was a child, except at my — except 
when you did, nearly eleven years ago. I judge him 
chiefly by what Otto says of him — that is, I read Otto’s 
opinion backwards. You know Otto’s way of talking. 

He says ” She glanced at Ida, and smiled a little. 

“ I need not repeat all Otto’s words,” she said ; “ but he and 
Robert have always been on friendly terms, as you know ; 
and I gather from what he says that Robert is an excellent 
parish priest, and adored by his parishioners.” 

“Well, that is something, I admit — yes, it is a great 
deal,” said the Baroness. “ I approve of good pastors who 
are adored by their flocks ; but, after all, my dear Emilia, 
flocks have a natural tendency to adore their pastor — a 
very ordinary mortal can accomplish as much as that. 
There is my quarrel with your brother, my dear child : he 
is ordinary — ordinary. Compare him with your cousin 
Gordon, for instance.” 

“Oh, that is not fair!” said Emilia, smiling, “since we 
are long since agreed that Gordon is perfection. It is a 
perfection that leaves something to be desired at times, I 
confess ; but he is the most excellent fellow — he has the 
kindest heart in the world.” 

“Oh, that is nothing !” said the Baroness ; ‘Hhat is, it 
is everything, of course ; but many men, thank heaven ! 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


58 

have kind hearts, though they have nothing else. But 
your cousin has so much more. To begin with, he has 
intellect, he has imagination ; he has too much imagina- 
tion. It makes him fastidious.’* 

“Fastidious — you call Gordon fastidious?’* 

“You do not ?” said the Baroness. 

“ Oh, undoubtedly, on some points ; I might even call 
him a fidget,” said Emilia, smiling again. “I am not in 
love with him, Aunt Irma, as you are. He snubs me too 
often, and I don’t like being snubbed ; and then he is 
much too obstinate ; it provokes me that he should be so 
obstinate. There is that appointment, now ; I feel sure it 
will be something he would do well to accept ; and I don’t 
believe that he will, though he has gone all the way to 
Cologne to see those Englishmen about it. I wonder, by- 
the-bye, whether he has come back. He spoke of return- 
ing last night.” 

“Yes, he has come back,” said the Baroness. “ Schmidt 
told me he had called early, and finding that we were not 
down, had gone away. He will come in again presently, 
no doubt.” 

“I wish he could have stayed away longer,” Madame 
von Waldorf went on ; “ it is better for him ; it does him 
good to be away ; he simply worries himself at home. I 
wish extremely he would be reasonable. You don’t per- 
suade him enough. Aunt Irma ; you don't take my part. 
You must know that it would be better for him to allow 
my uncle to live with me, and to make an independent 
life for himself.” 

“ But, my dear child, I never try to persuade anyone,” 
said the Baroness. “ I state a proposition : it is to take 
or to leave, as they say. I presume other people have as 
many brains to decide with as I have ; Gordon has, at any 
rate. I have put the case before him ; it presents no com- 
plications. He must know best whether he can make his 
father happy or not. Naturally, it is not comfortable for 
him — for Gordon,” she went on. “ He has been used to 
everything money can buy all his life, and he can’t under- 
stand doing without it. He is too fastidious, I tell you ; 
that is what it is. You should cure him of that, my dear 
Emilia.” 

Madame von Waldorf shook her head. “ Otto, now,” 
she said — “ I might call Otto fastidious, but not Gor- 
don.” 

“ Otto — oh, Otto is a goose ! ” said the Baroness ; “a very 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 59 

nice boy in his way, but a goose. He thinks as much of 
his scents and his pocket-handkerchiefs as a woman. It 
doesn’t matter for him. He is a rich man, he has mar- 
ried a rich wife, he can trim his pocket-handkerchiefs with 
point-de-Venise if he pleases. I was not comparing Gor- 
don with him ; Gordon is not fastidious in that silly sense, 
thank goodness. But, in fact, I was talking of neither 
Otto nor Gordon, but of your half-brother, who is of quite 
a different pate from either. He is not fastidious ; cer- 
tainly not; he is not even a gentleman. No, he is not a 
gentleman.” 

The Baroness pronounced these last words in English, 
attracting Elisabeth’s attention, that had been divided 
between the speakers and her book. The conversation so 
far had been carried on in German, except when Madame 
von Waldorf addressed her little girl. She had spoken to 
Ida in English, which she spoke perfectly well, though 
with a slight foreign accent, and the child had replied in 
the same language. Elisabeth knew German fairly well, 
as has been said, but her unaccustomed ear found a certain 
difficulty in following a rapid conversation ; she had 
caught but a phrase here and there, mingling it vaguely 
with the more fluent talk she found recorded in the pages 
of her Tauchnitz volume. Now she looked up, but imme- 
diately sank her head again upon her book on finding that 
the Baroness, who happened to look round at the moment, 
was regarding her with some curiosity. Elisabeth dis- 
liked being looked at ; she wished she could have had the 
room to herself. If she had not felt it would be rude, she 
would have liked to hold up her volume as a screen be- 
tween herself and these strangers. It was a relief that 
the waiter approached at that moment, bearing her colfee 
and an omelette on a tray. But the relief was short-lived, 
or rather, she exchanged one anxiety for another. Beside 
the omelette on the tray there lay a letter. 

It had been forwarded on a chance from the Pension 
Elder, and Elisabeth, with a profound sinking of the heart, 
recognized her aunt’s handwriting. That writing had 
never been a very welcome sight to the girl, and her first 
tliought now was one of alarm. Could her aunt by some 
occult, by some extraordinary means have learned already 
what had happened, and sent this letter to recall her 
home ? A chain seemed all at oni^e to reach all the way 
from England and bind itself tightly round Elisabeth’s 
heart. With the very energy of despair she opened the 


6o 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


envelope and began to read. The letter was short and ran 
as follows : 

My Dear Elisabeth : — Only a few hours after your 
departure I found in my writing-case the enclosed letter 
of introduction to my old acquaintance, tlie Baroness von 
Leuwine ; in the hurry of your last preparations I had 
omitted, I find, to give it to you. I am uncertain as to 
the Baroness’s actual address; lier home is in Vienna, but 
she has the habit of spending part of the year with a rela- 
tive in Schlossberg, whose precise address I have forgotten. 
(I Iiave that of the Baroness in Vienna.) Miss Elder, 
however, will be able, I have no doubt, to ascertain it for 
you ; and should the Baroness now be in Schlossberg, this 
letter will serve you as an introduction to her. She may 
perliaps be kind enough to invite you to go occasionally 
and see her ; and Miss Elder can decide whether it is 
compatible with your other and more important duties for 
you to do so. 

“You will have reached the end of your journey by the 
time you receive this, and will have enjoyed, I trust, all 
the new scenes through which you have been passing. 
You will, of course, begin to attend the different classes 
as soon as possible, as a twelvemonth will quickly pass, 
and there is no time to lose. I hope to receive from Miss 
Elder satisfactory accounts of your diligence and general 
progress. I have requested her to leave the care of your 
wardrobe entirely in your own hands, as it is proper you 
should know how to attend to all these small matters ; and 
I have begged her to see, so far as her numerous occupa- 
tions will permit of her doing so, that you pay a strict 
attention to neatness — a point, as you know, in which I 
have too often found you deficient. 

“ Your uncle is pretty well. We left town, as we intend- 
ed, yesterday, and are both enjoying the country air and 
the hospitality of our friends. The gardens are particu- 
larly beautiful this year, and your uncle bids me tell you 
he wishes you were here to help him eat the peaches. 

“ Ever, my dear Elisabeth, 

“Your affectionate aunt, 

“ Maria Verrinder.” 

* 

Elisabeth breathed again. Any crisis in her fate must 
certainly still be two or three days off ; everything remain- 
ed as it was before, Not often, in fact, in her experience 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


6i 


had she found so little to displease her in one of her aunt’s 
missives. The tone of this one affected lier not at all ; she 
was quite used to being treated by Mrs. Verrinder as a 
child of seven rather than a person of seventeen, as an ir- 
responsible being, hardly yet able to distinguish her right 
hand from her left ; and any other treatment would iiave 
surprised and confused her. Her most prominent feeling 
now, perhaps, was satisfaction that it was forever out of 
the power of the unknown Miss Elder to report on her 
diligence and exhort her to be tidy. Still, however, as she 
drank her coffee, her eyes rested on the letter lying on 
the table before her addressed to Baroness von Leuwine. 
A Baroness ! a stranger to be confronted ! A vain, a guilty 
longing to destroy the letter and let her aunt suppose that 
in her change of residence it had not reached her, possessed 
Elisabeth for a moment. A vain longing, indeed ; never, 
as she knew, could she lend herself to such a crime as that. 
On the contrary, with the impulse that generally urged 
her to do as she was told, she presently, with a sigh, took 
up her aunt’s letter and read it through again ; then fell to 
considering in what way she could discover Baroness von 
Leuwine’s address. Miss Elder had vanished from the 
scene. Perhaps the people in the hotel would know ; yes, 
probably they knew everyone in the town ; at least, if they 
did not know, her conscience would be clear. She might 
ask the waiter, to begin with ; he had seemed to her an 
obliging and friendly person, not at all formidable. Hear- 
ing a footstep behind her, Elisabeth turned round ; but it 
was not the waiter. It was, as she immediately perceived, 
precisely the same young man in a light morning suit who 
had scared her from the Castle restaurant hardly an hour 
ago. 

He had scared her from the restaurant ; but as she was 
much too hungry to jump up and run away again, even 
had she felt disposed to do so — but an hotel was different 
— she sat still, simply feeling slightly uncomfortable and 
disconcerted. He, on his side, glanced at her as he passed, 
but with no consciousness, apparentlv (as was indeed 
the fact) of having seen her before. Walking up to the 
other table, he shook hands with the two ladies seated 
there, and dropped into a chair. 

‘ . you are back, Gordon,” said the Baroness, address- 

ing him with a friendly nod. “ Schmidt told me so, in- 
deed. He said you had called early, and had gone away 
again.” 


62 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


“Yes, I’m back,” he said. “ I got in late last night. 
No, nothing to eat, thank you ; I had some breakfast up 
at the Castle restaurant. I have a fancy for the place, 
as you know, and my father always has his coffee in his 
own room. You have been to see him, he tells me,” turn- 
ing to Emilia. 

“No,” said Madame von Waldorf, smiling; “we forgot 
all about his existence.” 

“ Pshaw !” he said, smiling too, but rubbing his smile 
out, so to speak, with a movement of his hand across his 
mouth. He leaned back, and laid his hat and stick on a 
chair behind him. “ He was all right, at any rate,” he said, 
“ though I have always the idea when I go away that 
something may happen before I get back. It’s not that 
he minds being alone, of course ; he’s used to that ; he 
doesn’t want one for ever in the room. And then it 
amuses him when I come back with something fresh to 
tell him. Still, I don’t know that I did right in leaving 
him ; I am never sure he is being properly looked after.” 

“I don’t think it has done him any harm, Gordon,” said 
Madame von Waldorf, gently. 

“ Well, no ; I suppose it hasn't. There’s that woman, 
Emilia, that you put in,” he went on directly ; “ I’ve a no- 
tion she does nothing when I’m not there. My father 
doesn’t say so, of course ; you know what he is ; but she 
seems to me to be always half asleep.” 

“ If that is the case, we must find another,” said Madame 
von Waldorf. “ But I had better perhaps speak to her 
first. Servants are a trouble here, always.” 

“ I don’t believe speaking is any good,” he said ; ‘‘be- 
sides, I hate troubling you. I don’t manage her properly, 
I suppose ; that’s what it is. The fact is, I want her to 
manage me ; she doesn’t understand that ; she doesn't 
recognize her opportunities. I wish she did.” 

He threw himself back in his chair, and was silent for a 
minute. Gordon Temple was a man of about thirty, of 
middle height and rather square-built figure, but active 
and alert in movement. He had an excellent honest face, 
fresh complexioned, with luminous, intelligent gray eyes 
(they were his best feature), an abundant brown mus- 
tache, and thick light brown hair lying in a straight line 
across his forehead. His expression was good and friendly, 
but a certain quickness in the movement of the eye, to- 
gether with something of heaviness in the lines of the 
brow, told of a man who did not invariably find the con- 


THE TAIL [/EE OF ELISABETH. 


63 


ditions of life compatible with perfect placidity of temper. 
His relations with his cousin Emilia were the friendliest 
in the world, but they held a past which Madame von 
Waldorf occasionally found it difficult to forget. Some 
four or five years previously, on his return to Vienna after 
an absence of two years, he fell extremely in love with his 
cousin, whose husband was then recently dead ; and if, at 
the expiration of her mourning, she would have accepted 
him, he would have married her. Emilia, as it happened, 
was in love with her husband’s memory, and had no inten- 
tion of ever marrying again ; but the cousins remained 
constant and intimate friends, so much so that Gordon 
presently discovered that he had emerged from the 
troubled mists of love into the clearer atmosphere of 
friendship. Emilia, who would have preferred, perhaps, 
that her Petrarch should continue to write sonnets to 
her footprint and her eyebrow, was a trifle resentful at 
first at this transformation of an ardent worshipper into 
a candid friend. He snubbed her occasionally, as she had 
said ; occasionally, even, he was a trifle rough ; he permit- 
ted himself, not without her permission, to be at home 
with her ; if he was cross, or if he was bored, he showed 
it. In return, he was her very devoted servant, looked 
after her affairs when he could, executed troublesome com- 
missions ; and Emilia, who was really one of the most rea- 
sonable people in the world, finished by accepting the 
situation with the charming grace she brought into all the 
relations of life. She laughed at her cousin a little, she 
teased him sometimes, she wrote him long letters when 
they were separated, confiding most of her troubles, great 
and small, to him, and sympathizing with his in return. 
He admired her exceedingly ; he approved of her. She 
was, after all, very much his idea of what a woman ought 
to be, and he puzzled himself awhile to know why he had 
ceased to be in love with her ; he understood it only on 
the day he perceived that she no longer appealed to his 
imagination. He was so intimately acquainted with her 
that there seemed to be absolutely nothing left for him to 
discover ; they were, in a way, on the same terms as an 
affectionate husband and wife after ten years of marriage. 
This added greatly to the solidity, and what may be called 
the domestic comfort, of their friendship ; but to a man 
of imagination, as the Baroness had declared Gordon 
Temple to be, it was fatal to any further romance of love. 
Madame von Waldorf ended by accepting the situation ; 


64 THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 

in fact, on the whole, she preferred it. At the same time, 
recalling the days when her lightest word had had power 
to change the color of the world to him, there were mo- 
ments when she felt that their present attitude, though 
comfortable, was a little prosaic. They had exchanged 
the sunset and the moon and stars for a good fire and easy- 
chairs, and no woman who has been once adored can be 
expected to accept the change with perfect equanimity. 
There was a finality about it, too, that in itself is an irrita- 
tion to a woman, who likes to hold the key of the position 
in her own hands. Still, being, as I have said, thoroughly 
reasonable, Madame von Waldorf bore herself with a 
good grace, and if she felt occasional discontent, Gordon 
at least never found it out. 

At present, no subject occupied her thoughts habitually 
more than her cousin’s domestic troubles. She was con- { 
sidering his last remark with a view to a suitable reply — 
if he had no further discoveries to make concerning her, 
she on her side felt that it was impossible to know always 
how Gordon would take a thing — when the Baroness in- 
terposed. \ 

“Well,” she said, “and what about this appointment? 

Is it likely to suit you ? ” 

“Oh, the appointment!” he said. “No; it’s no good, / 

though I’m gratified the offer should have been made to ^ 

me. It’s from the Smith Philological Society. They want ^ 

to send a man out to study and report on various dialects < 

in the regions lying somewhere to the north of Persia, and 
they thought 1 might suit them.” i 

“ But that is excellent,” said Madame von Waldorf. ^ 

“ Did you not accept it, Gordon ? ” c 

“ No ; I didn’t,” he said. ^ 

“ Why ? ” she asked. “ Is the pay not sufficiently 1 
good ? ” 5 

“ Oh, the pay is excellent ; it’s about the best endowed 
society there is. But, in short, Emilia, you are perfectly | 

well aware that I don’t want to leave my father, so we 
needn’t discuss the question — no, we need say no more 'j 

about it. And talking about money,” he went on immedi- yv 

ately, changing the subject, “reminds me that I hear | 

Robert is coming to Schlossberg for the winter. Is that J 

the fact ?” I 

“ I believe so,” Madame von Waldorf replied ; “ he wrote 1 

as much to Otto. You know, Otto gets a letter from him | 

occasionally. His health had broken down, he said, and | 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 65 

he has been ordered abroad for the winter, so he is coming 
here.” 

“Now I wonder what brings him to Schlossberg,” said 
her cousin. “ I should have thought he would rather have 
gone fifty miles in another direction.” 

“Well,” said the Baroness, with some vivacity, “and we 
should none of us, I presume, have broken our hearts if he 
had — except Emilia, perhaps. I don’t believe you like him 
better than I do, Gordon.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “ I have seen nothing of 
him for years.” He threw himself back in his chair and 
began a yawn, but immediately suppressed it with a good- 
humored laugh. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but I 
was not in bed until one o’clock this morning, and I was up 
again pretty early too. Well, here’s Ida, who has never 
said a word to me. She has forgotten me, 1 believe. I 
have been away for a couple of days, and she doesn’t know 
who I am. You don’t know, do you, Ida?” 

“ No,” said Ida, boldly, jumping in her chair. 

“Ah, I thought you didn’t. Well, then, we shall have 
to guess. I’m Uncle Otto, am I ? No? Uncle Robert, 
then ? Yes ; I must be Uncle Robert.” 

“No — yes! ’’said the child, with her jolly laugh ; “you’re 
Uncle Robert.” 

“I don’t believe she knows who her Uncle Robert is,” 
said her mother. “Do you, Ida?” 

“Never mind; I’m Uncle Robert. It’s a pity, though, 
for if I had been Cousin Gordon, and Ida had given me a 
kiss, she might probably have found a gingerbread man 
in one of my pockets, though I’m sure I don’t know in 
which.” 

“ Oh, let me see, let me see ! I’ll try them all ! ” cried 
Ida, getting down from her chair in the greatest hurry and 
climbing on to his knee. “ You’re Cousin Gordon — there's 
a kiss. Now let me see.” 

“ Dear me, his head has come off,” said her cousin. “You 
must eat him up at once ; it makes me unhappy to see 
him. And now I think of it, I believe that I left his wife 
behind in the gingerbread shop ; that was very unkind of 
me ; I feel sure she would like to be eaten too. Suppose 
you ask your mamma to let you come with me and fetch 
her.” 

“ Oh, I’m going. I’m going,” said Ida, slipping off his 
knee and running to the door. “ I’m going to get my hat 
directly.” 

S 


66 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


“Stop, Ida, stop; where are you going?” cried her 
mother. “Your hat is here, my child, and your gloves 
too,” taking a minute white silk pair from her pocket, and 
proceeding to fit them on Ida’s fat fingers. “You must 
be the best little girl, remember, if Cousin Gordon is kind 
enough to trouble himself with you.” 

“Oh, I like it,” he protested; “there’s nothing I like 
better. Ida takes care of me ; I feel quite safe when she 
has hold of my hand. I want to write two lines first, 
though, to post on my way. I’ll ask the waiter to bring 
me a pen and ink in here.’' 

He turned to speak to the waiter, who had re-entered 
the room and gone up to Elisabeth ; and in the mo- 
mentary silence that fell upon the party a crisis arrived 
in the fate of our heroine, for in that moment her voice 
was distinctly heard inquiring : “ Can you tell me the ad- 
dress of the Baroness von Leuwine ? ” 

The man hesitated, and turned with a half-puzzled, half- 
appealing look toward the other table. The Baroness, who 
was seated with her back to Elisabeth, looked round at the 
sound of her name, and contemplated the girl for a mo- 
ment in silence. “ I am wanted, apparently,” she said, 
then, with a smile on her broad, benevolent face, and ris- 
ing, moved across the intervening space to Elisabeth. 

“ My dear young lady,” she said, “ I hear you inquir- 
ing the address of Baroness von Leuwine. Here she is, 
very much at your service. In what can I be of use to 
you ? ” 

Elisabeth had sprung to her feet. “ This letter ” 

she said, stammering. “ My aunt sent it to me to send. 
She knows the Baroness von Leuwine.” 

“Comme cela tombe!” said the Baroness. “Here I 
am. But sit down, my dear child, and tell me who your 
aunt is. I am delighted in any case to make the acquaint- 
ance of her niece.” 

Elisabeth looked rather bewildered. “My aunt is Mrs. 
Verrinder,” she said. “ She wrote to me to find out the 
Baroness’s address, and send her this letter.” 

“Precisely ; and I am Baroness von Leuwine, very much 
at your service, as I said before.” She drew a card-case 
from her pocket, and taking out a card, laid it before Elisa- 
beth. “ I see,” she said, smiling again, “ I must introduce 
myself in form. My house, you perceive, is in Vienna ; 
but for the moment I am staying in this hotel. And now, 
will you permit — will you excuse me if I read my letter ? 

Y 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 67 

I foresee it will prove the shortest road to our making ac- 
quaintance.” 

She opened the letter and ran her eye over its contents, 
slightly raising her eyebrows as she did so ; then, replac- 
ing it in the envelope, sat considering Elisabeth for a 
moment. “ I knew your aunt some years ago,” she said ; 
“it is extremely amiable of her to have remembered me ; 
I must write and tell her so. And so you, my dear young 
lady, are her niece — or, rather, her husband’s niece, she 
informs me. But how is it, if I may inquire, that you are 
here ? She mentions the Pension Elder ” 

“ Oh, I was to have gone there,” said Elisabeth. “ I have 
come for the classes ; I was to have been with Miss Elder. 
But when I got there last night I found that she had died 
the day before, and that the house was shut up, and so I 
had to come on here.” 

“ But, bless me, that will not do at all,” said the Baron- 
ess ; “ it is not right, my dear, that a child like you should 
be alone in this big hotel.” 

“ Oh, I like it — I like it,” said Elisabeth, very quickly. 
“ I never enjoyed anything so much before — never.” 

“ Yes, yes,” said the Baroness, “we understand all that ; 
it is a little liberty that we have found, and it is all new. 
Nevertheless, this hotel is too large and too public for a 
young girl to be in by herself. It will not do.” 

“ Oh,” said Elisabeth, reddening a good deal. “I could 
not help it. I went first to the Pension Elder.” 

“Yes, yes; and they sent you on here. Yes, I under- 
stand perfectly. It is not your fault. But it will not do, 
my dear young lady ; it will not do. Why, how old are 
you? Fifteen? Sixteen?” 

“lam seventeen; I shall be eighteen in the spring,” 
said Elisabeth. The tears came into her eyes ; she had 
not minded being alone ; she loved to be alone ; but in the 
midst of these strangers she felt inexpressibly forlorn. 

“ Eighteen in the spring,” said the Baroness, smiling. 
She saw the girlYvas frightened, and, taking one of her 
hands in hers, patted it kindly. “ You don’t look so much, 
my dear,” she said. “ And your aunt is sending you to 
school ? Why, it is time for you to be coming out into the 
world, not to be going in.” 

“ Oh, I like it — I like it,” said Elisabeth again quickly. 
She had a terror that this new acquaintance, this unknown 
friend of her aunt’s, should suggest her immediate return 
to England. “ I am not going to school,” she said, “only 


68 THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 

to classes ; and I like coming abroad better than any- 
thing.” 

‘‘Yes, yes, we know all about that,” said the Baroness, 
still holding the girl’s hand in hers. “We have a little 
more freedom than at home, and we are seeing sometiiing 
of the world. And now, my dear, I’ll tell you what you 
shall do. You have written to tell your aunt about Miss 
Elder? You are going to do so to-day? Certainly, you 
must on no account neglect it. And meanwhile, for the 
present, you join our party and belong to me. Yes, that 
is quite arranged. Emilia,” turning to Madame von Wal- 
dorf, “here is a young lady. Miss Elisabeth Verrinder, 
whom I have adopted for the present ; she will be with us. 
There is a little empty room just opposite yours that she 
can have. I will speak to Schmidt about it at once.” 

“Certainly, that will be just the thing,” said Madame 
von Waldorf, with her charming smile. Elisabeth glanced 
at her again ; she felt gauche^ shy, helpless, miserable 
beyond words, and yet conscious of a certain pleasure and 
wonder in being thrown into relations with anyone so 
beautiful as Madame von Waldorf. She could never have 
imagined it possible. “ You are a stranger here ?” Emilia 
continued with kind intention. “ What could we do. Aunt 
Inna, to amuse Miss Verrinder? We might go to the 
Castle, and to the college gardens afterward, perhaps, to 
hear the band play.” 

“Oh, thank you, I don’t think I could,” said Elisabeth, 
starting. Her mind ran rapidly over the details of her 
simple schoolgirl wardrobe, her gloves, her frock, her hat. 
What had she to wear worthy of l)eingseen beside Madame 
von Waldorf? “Oh, I couldn’t, thank you,” she said 
again. “I must write to my aunt.” 

“ Well, well,” said the Baroness, tapping her kindly on 
the shoulder, “we won’t torment you, my dear. Write to 
your aunt, by all means — in fact, you must do so. If you 
like to go now, I will come presently and see to your things 
being moved. Yes, yes ; we shall do very well together, 
you will see,” she said, as Elisabeth moved away. 

“She is shy,” said Madame von Waldorf, looking after 
her. 

“She is a little schoolgirl — a little goose,” said the 
Baroness. “ I know English girls of that kind, brought up 
like nuns between the schoolroom and the nursery, and 
knowing no more about life and themselves at eighteen 
than the bird out of its egg yesterday. Out they come 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 69 

with a dozen or so of dates and French and German verbs 
in their foolish little heads, and eighteen years of tiieir 
life gone. A fine way to train up a well-judging, healthy, 
sensible woman. Happily it is a fashion that is going out, 
I understand. As for lier aunt,” the Baroness continued, 
I remember her — a little dried-up, pushing woman, whom 
I never liked. They were at Homburg, that her husband 
miglit drink the waters. Either they or the climate dis- 
agreed with him extremely ; but his wife liked the gayety 
of the place, and nothing would induce her to move. I 
remember him, too — a soft, good-natured man, who never 
in his life, I should think, had his own way in anything. 
Why she should have written to me, I cannot imagine. As 
things have turned out, however, I am glad she did ; I have 
taken a fancy to the girl.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

AT THE PENSION WERNER. 

Some few weeks later Elisabeth, seated at the little win- 
dow of a high-set upper chamber, was watching the fad- 
ing of the red sunset hour. Twilight filled the room, a 
spacious attic with sloping walls and ceiling, a china 
stove, a wooden bed and huge red duvet^ a shabby little 
green stuff sofa, and a small table with a faded cloth, on 
which Elisabeth’s books and papers lay piled together in 
confusion. A room of no great pretension, it will be seen ; 
but that famous glow of romance, dear to Elisabeth’s 
young lieart, shone through the square casement where 
she sat, in the splendor of the evening red lying low 
beyond the misty plain and darkening hills, crowning her 
attic, or so she thought, with a finer glory than that of all 
the mirrored velvet of her little apartment at the Kaiser- 
hof. Here, from her high window, her dusky, steep-ceiled 
room, dusk within and evening red without, she sees the 
strange procession of the Middle Ages moving, as it were, 
across the twilight plain — strange and grotesque region of 
the imagination, twilight, too, in the dusk of years ; where 
a fantastic death for ever walks hand-in-hand with rich, 
fantastic life, where sanctity and d-evilry dwell side by 
side ; where witchcraft brews its philtres, and life-blood 
signs the bonds of hell, whilst high overhead bells swing 


70 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


to heaven in mid-air, as roof above roof, buttress and pin- 
nacle and turret are piled and soar to darkling towers and 
spires that rise against the sunset and the stars. Elisa- 
beth, gazing from her window, is feeling it all with a rich- 
ness of feeling that could find no utterance in words. 
Only tears fill her eyes. She is not content — ah, no, she is 
not content. But she is happy. Once more she says to 
herself that never in her whole life had she thought to be 
so happy. 

In these last few weeks the immediate problem of her 
destiny had solved itself, as such problems are bound to 
do in the progress of time, though not always to such 
large satisfaction as this of Elisabeth’s. It was Baroness 
von Leuwine who had furnished the solution on this 
occasion, as set out in a letter she addressed to Mrs. Ver- 
rinder two days after her first introduction to Elisabeth. 

Dear Mrs. Verrinder,” she wrote in the English that 
she both wrote and spoke with considerable correctness 
and fluency, I have to thank you for the amiable 
memory that recalls me to your mind after these several 
years that we have not met. But the summer at Hom- 
burg — where, as you so kindly remember, we saw each 
other with some frequency — is one of the pleasant remi- 
niscences of my life, and I feel indebted to you for reviving 
one of its pleasures, that of your amiable society, by the 
letter forwarded to me through your niece. Pray believe 
that I reciprocate the friendly expressions you use in it 
toward myself. 

“ I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of your 
niece — I should say more accurately, I believe, your hus- 
band’s niece — two days ago. She will have written you, 
no doubt, a full account of the awkward circumstances 
through which she finds herself in this hotel ; and as you, 
dear madam, have kindly made us acquainted with one 
another, I take the liberty of considering her under my 
protection for the moment. She pleases me. She is very 
shy, I observe, which is a pity ; I consider it, indeed, an 
extreme stupidity for a girl of seventeen to be too shy to 
answer rationally when she is spoken to. But I am bound 
to admit I consider it in a great measure due to your Eng- 
lish system of education ; and as regards Elisabeth, though 
she is extremely shy, I perceive that she is also extremely 
intelligent. I am accustomed to see a great variety of 
young girls, and am seldom mistaken in my estimate of 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


71 


their character ; and your niece, unless I am more mis- 
taken than usual, has a fresh strain of imagination and 
feeling that distinguishes her from the general herd of 
bread-and-butter misses, as you call young people of that 
foolish age in England. She has her wits about her, 
notices everything worth seeing, and is perfectly capable 
of taking care of herself in an emergency — as was proved, 
indeed, in the dilemma in which she was placed on her 
arrival here. Her shyness does not in the least interfere 
with that ! But to whom do I write all this ? You, dear 
madam, after seventeen years’ acquaintance with your 
niece, must certainly be as well aware that she has admir- 
able qualities as I who have known her but forty-eiglit 
hours. If I enlarge upon her merits, it is simply to 
emphasize my first remark — that she pleases me. She 
pleases me so much that I write to propose she shall 
remain here under my care during the week or ten days 
that must elapse before the house of my niece, Madame 
von Waldorf, in which some painting and papering is 
going on, is ready to receive us. During that time we 
retain our rooms in tiiis hotel ; but afterwards, though I 
hope often to see Elisabeth in the month or two before I 
return to Vienna, I can, I regret to sa)^ do little for her 
personally. I have, however, a proposition to make. 
Though Miss Elder’s excellent pension is closed, there are 
others in Schlossberg, and I can especially recommend for 
quiet and decorum one kept by a German lady, Frau 
Werner, who was at one time nursery-governess to a friend 
of mine, but who subsequently marrying, and getting into 
difficulties after her husband’s death, started this pension 
by the advice of my friend and myself. I give you these 
details to show you that I know all about Frau Werner. 
She has a very good house in the Peterstrasse, and it is 
generally full all through the autumn and winter months. 
In about ten days the British chaplain (furnished to 
Schlossberg by I don’t know which of your English socie- 
ties), the Reverend Mr. Sparrow, with his wife and 
daughter, will be taking up his quarters there until next 
spring. They are not people I like extremely ; they were 
here last season, when I had occasion to see something of 
them, though in a different house, and they — I should per- 
haps say he — struck me, to say the truth, as both borni 
and arrogant. But though I may not like them, they are 
perfectly respectable and well looked upon ; and Mr. 
Sparrow has all the prestige that attaches to your English 


72 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


clergyman ; his wife and daughter are good-natured, and 
they would, I believe, be quite willing to have your niece 
under their care at the Pension Werner. They would, as 
I understand it, have no trouble and very little responsi- 
bility in the matter, as your niece will be attending classes 
all day, and Madame von Waldorf and myself will do our 
best to look after her in any little difficulties as to toilette, 
society, and so on, that might arise. But she can sit by 
Mrs. Sparrow at table, there will be someone for her to 
speak to ; she will be under proper protection, in short, 
and not alone in the world. Pray let me know, dear 
madam, if you approve iny suggestion, as in that case I 
will at once speak to Frau Werner and see that Elisabeth 
is properly housed. For the present, as I have said, I am 
delighted she should be with us. She is a studious young 
lady, I find, and expresses a wish to begin her classes at 
once. But they do not, as a fact, open for another fort- 
night ; and in any case it is as well that she should see 
something of Schlossberg and its surroundings in this 
lovely summer weather ; so we are proposing some excur- 
sions. You see, dear Mrs. Verrinder, I have taken posses- 
sion of her as a consequence of your letter. But I am 
extremely fond of young people, and consider it a point 
of honor to make them fond of me. I do not even despair 
of succeeding, before the ten days are over, in inducing 
Elisabeth to speak of me of her own accord.” 

And hence my heroine’s content ; since Mrs. Verrinder 
having nothing better to suggest (she did not in the least 
desire her niece’s return, if the girl had but known it), 
Elisabeth was presently introduced into Frau Werner’s 
establishment, and put in possession of that spacious, 
shabby, dusky abode of happiness in which we find her. 
Her aunt, indeed, was not without some fear that the ar- 
rangement might prove altogether too agreeable for the 
moral rectitude of a young person like Elisabeth. She 
wrote as much to Elisabeth herself ; she also wrote to the 
Baroness, thanking her for her kindness in undertaking 
some supervision of her niece, and requesting her to see 
that Elisabeth did not enjoy herself too much. It need 
hardly be said that these were not the precise words used 
by Mrs. Verrinder even to herself ; but there is no doubt 
that that lady, whose views of life were pedantic rather 
than sympathetic, was of serious opinion that for a young 
girl of Elisabeth’s tastes and vcharacter to enjoy lierself,^ 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


73 


might gravely affect her moral progress. But all this 
hardly touched Elisabeth’s content. Her aunt was miles 
— a year off ; the present was all her own to be happy in. 
She had her classes to attend, and learning was delightful 
to her. Elisabeth cared greatly for books ; and among 
the visions of a future in which she occasionally indulged, 
none pleased her better than that of some high, Faust-like 
chamber, venerable with the moral dust of ages, and her- 
self a lonely student, seated in the midst before a table 
piled with weighty tomes, imbibing the ancient wisdom 
that springs perennial beneath that dust. The vision, I 
say, pleased her ; for Elisabeth had that possession of 
doubtful gain to its owner, a solitary soul— the soul that 
in its natural craving for solitude, its human craving for 
sympathy, sends its possessor tossing through life from 
one contradiction to another, from whirlpool to whirlpool, 
as one may say, where the opposing currents meet. For 
the moment, it was one of Elisabeth’s motives for content 
that she was floating down the current of solitude. Never 
in her life before had she had so large a freedom of lonely 
hours ; and to a youthful solitary soul no deeper motive 
for content could be imagined. But if the girl had lonely 
instincts, she was not insensible to human kindness ; on 
the contrary, no friendly word was uttered but an ardent 
and grateful heart sprang to meet it ; and in that great 
kindness she had encountered since she came abroad, in 
the Baroness, in Madame von Waldorf, in Frau Werner, 
and the people in the pension, she was beginning to unfold 
a little ; the frost that until now had held her young life 
too much in check was beginning to melt. Yes, she was 
happy as she had never been before — never. If it could 
but last forever ! ” thinks Elisabeth, as she sits at her attic 
window, watching the fading sunset. At least she has a 
year before her — the immeasureable treasure of a year. 

A bell rang below, the signal for supper, and Elisabeth 
started up. She had not known it was so late. She had 
the habit, by Mrs. Sparrow’s request, of making her ap- 
pearance in that lady’s room some five minutes before the 
hour for meals, so as to descend to the dining-room under 
her immediate eye. She struck a match now, lighted a 
candle in haste, and began to arrange her hair before the 
little square mirror set on the top of a chest of drawers. 
She was struggling still with her thick rebellious locks — 
they were one of the chief beauties of the young unformed 
girl, but no hairpins her skill could set ever held them 


74 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


tidily for an hour together — when a tap came at the door ; 
it opened in obedience to her summons, and a girl stood 
on the threshold. . 

She was of about the same age as Elisabeth, a plump, 
eighteen-year-old damsel, fair-haired and rosy-cheeked, with 
light grayish-blue eyes, and an uncertain, amiable mouth. 
Her fingers, which were plump also, were noted for the force 
with which on Sunday they could strike the harmonium, 
whilst with a flat, not unpleasant voice she led the psal- 
mody for her father’s congregation. Her name was Mary 
Sparrow, and she was the only daughter of the English 
chaplain. She stood on the threshold of Elisabeth’s room, 
letting her eyes wander slowly round the dimly-lighted 
apartment, until they finally rested on Elisabeth’s untidy 
table. Then she spoke in flat monotonous tones. 

The teaTbell has rung, Elisabeth. Mamma is waiting.” 

I know, I know,” said Elisabeth, hurrying her oper- 
ations ; ‘‘ I am sorry, I didn’t know it was so late. Please 
ask Mrs. Sparrow not to wait, Mary. I am coming.” 

Mamma said,” continued her interlocutor, without 
noticing her words, and advancing a step into the room, 
‘‘that she sends you these, Elisabeth, and she hopes you 
will read them. She thinks they may do you good. She 
told papa she thinks you stand sadly in need of a little 
sound religious instruction. You don’t mind my telling 
you, Elisabeth ? ” 

“I don’t think I have time to read the books, thank 
you,” said Elisabeth. “ They are tracts — I don’t like tracts, 
not that kind ; and I have my class books.” 

“Mamma says to papa she thinks it is sad for a young 
girl to give so much time as you do to mere profane read- 
ing, and so little to Bible studies. And she said, Elisabeth, 
she thought it a great pity that Madame von Waldorf had 
kept you there last Sunday, instead of allowing you to re- 
turn to service and the evening hymn-singing.” 

“ I went to church in the morning,” said Elisabeth, 
hastily, and coloring. Churchgoing was always a sore 
point with her. It was on her conscience that she could 
not enjoy it more, that her attention strayed, that long 
prayers, a long Litany, long Psalms and Lessons wearied 
her ; that she could not, in short, feel about going to 
church as good people feel. She thrust the last pin into 
her thick locks, and turned round. 

“ Madame von Waldorf asked me to stay,” she said. 
“ She would not if it had be^^u wrong. It is different 


7'HE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


75 


abroad ; people don’t keep Sunday in the same way. I 
always go to church twice at home ; I have to.” 

“ Yes ; that is what mamma says,” replied Miss Sparrow. 
‘‘She said to papa it was sad that a young girl like you 
should fall into corrupt foreign ways as soon as you come 
abroad, and that it showed a sad want of sound religious 
training. One of these tracts is about keeping the Sabx 
bath ; you don’t mind my telling you, Elisabeth?” 

“ I don’t mind your telling me anything,'" said Elisabeth, 
with a flash of impatience ; “but I wish, Mary, if you don’t 
mind, you would take away those tracts. I — I don’t mind 
some kinds of religious books ; I told your mother so when 
she asked me. But I don’t like that kind,” touching with 
one finger the little heap of tracts Mary had laid on the 
table. 

“No, mamma said she was afraid you cared very little 
for pure Gospel truth,” said Miss Sparrow, in her flat, 
melancholy tones. “ I think I must leave the books, 
Elisabeth. Mamma can’t make you read them, as she said' 
to papa ; but a word in season and out of season is her 
motto, she says ; and there they are, at any rate. Shall we 
go down now, Elisabeth ? Mamma has been waiting for 
some time, and she says she likes to be early, before Frau 
Werner fills up the teapot the second time, because after 
that the tea is always so weak. Mamma wanted Frau 
Werner to allow her to make the tea instead, but Frau 
Werner wouldn’t ; I’m sure I don’t know why. I am sure 
an English person must know how to make tea better than 
a German. Mamma says Frau Werner would have let her, 
she thinks, but that Mrs. General Cleaver prevented her. 
Mrs.- General Cleaver always tries to prevent what mamma 
wants. It was she, mamma thinks, who made Frau Werner 
refuse to let papa read family prayers every evening in 
the salon, as mamma proposed. Mamma says she is sure 
there are several ungodly people in the house who go to 
bed without saying any prayers at all, and if we could 
have had family worship in the salon every evening at 
half-past eight, as mamma proposed, they would have had 
no excuse not to attend. They could have gone on with 
their occupations afterwards, mamma says.” 

This string of confidential remarks was uttered by Miss 
Sparrow as, with her arm linked in that of Elisabeth, she 
descended flight after flight of the dimly-lighted wooden 
staircase that led from the upper regions of Frau Werner’s 
pension to the dining-room and salon on the ground-floor. 


76 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


She quitted Elisabeth’s side, however, at the foot of the 
last flight of stairs on the apparition in an adjoining door- 
way of a tall and portly lady dressed in brown silk. 

“ My dears, my dears,” said this personage in an impres- 
sive voice, “you are late.” 

“Elisabeth was not quite ready, mamma; she is sorry; 
it shall not occur again,” said Mary Sparrow, amiably act- 
ing as interpreter for Elisabeth, left a step or two behind ; 
“and we are not so very late, mamma. I saw Frau Werner 
go in just as we were coming down-stairs ; she will not have 
filled ” 

“ Enough, Mary, enough. Go in, my dear, to your 
father; he has taken his place already. Come, my dear 
Elisabeth. Try, my dear child, to cultivate a little more 
punctuality. The Christian virtues, as I have more than 
once endeavored to make you understand, depend greatly 
upon each other, and a failure in one is apt to bring about 
a failure in all. Unpunctuality involves loss of time, and 
what is so precious as fleeting time? Inconvenience to 
others also, and too often, alas ! loss of temper. But 
enough ; it will not occur again, I am sure.” 

Mrs. Sparrow was a person of presence, as the saying is, 
and found a constant pleasure in the conviction that the 
impressiv^e dignity with which she carried herself through 
the walks of life created precisely the sensation she felt to 
be her due. Her dress exhibited a skilful adjustment of the 
claims of piety and those of unregenerate worldliness ; its 
materials were flimsy, that is, its fashion a year or two be- 
hind date ; but it affected bright colors and a certain 
showiness of effect. Mrs. Sparrow had, in fact, what is 
called a showy taste in dress, which she might have held it 
unchristian to entertain, had she not persuaded herself 
that something must be conceded to unconverted prejud- 
ices, and that in her position as wife of a British chap- 
lain she owed it to herself and him to give no place to the 
scorner, but show that she knew how to meet the worldly 
on their own ground. It Avould have cost the good woman 
so large a pang not to gratify this harmless taste, that she 
was to be congratulated on her happy solution of a some- 
what nice difficulty. She seldom wore anything more friv- 
olous, however, than a garment in a brilliant shade of 
brown, trimmed with a good deal of gimp and fringe ; and 
this in the evening was further enlivened by an arrange- 
ment of Irish crochet and green ribbons, fastened at the 
throat by a large seed-pearl bVooch. A cap of similar ma- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


77 


terials, secured by another seed-pearl brooch, adorned her 
head ; and the chasteness of these decorations en suite ap- 
peared to Mrs. Sparrow to utter the last word in refined 
good taste. She had a second parure of Honiton lace and 
blue ribbons, to be worn with a topaz brooch and pin ; but 
these she rightly esteemed at once too decorative and too 
precious for an ordinary pension tea ; they lay apart in a 
drawer, wrapped in silver paper, reserved for more stately 
occasions. Mrs. Sparrow was not popular in the pension. 
It was her misfortune, indeed, to arouse in others a degree 
of animosity altogether out of proportion to her demerits. 
She had the highest opinion of the dignity of the clerical 
office, and as her husband’s wife, the wife of the British 
chaplain, she considered it incumbent on her to undertake 
all the more showy parts, if so irreverent a word may be 
permitted, of his clerical duties. She assumed the position 
of lady of the house, received and instructed the new- 
comers, turned a discriminating eye upon those who went 
to church and those who stayed away, cleared the salon on 
Saturday night of profane literature, locking up the glass 
bookcase that contained the innocent collection of innoc- 
uous fiction provided by Frau Werner for the entertain- 
ment of her visitors, and strewing the table with relig- 
ious volumes and tracts of her own selection. Of the 
piano also she had secured the key ever since that fatal 
Sunday afternoon when she discovered two young Ger- 
mans entertaining themselves by playing a selection of friv- 
olous waltzes. No profane hand afterwards disturbed its 
Sabbath silence ; it was kept rigidly locked until after even- 
ing service, when Mrs. Sparrow herself opened it, that 
her daughter Mary might accompany and lead the British 
hymn-singing to which the salon on Sunday evening was 
consecrated. It was not surprising that Mrs. Sparrow was 
unpopular ; and yet a worse woman might have excited 
less animosity. She might be narrow, conceited, and dog- 
matic, but she was sincere ; she did what she believed to 
be her duty unflinchingly, and she had the saving grace of 
a warm and motherly heart. Elisabeth might easily have 
fallen into worse hands than Mrs. Sparrow’s. She lect- 
ured her indeed, she shook her head over her, she dis- 
approved of her ; but she was good to the young girl, and 
looked after her with kindness ; she saw that she ate her 
dinner and changed her wet shoes, that her room was com- 
fortable, and her stove lighted on chilly days. Elisabeth, 
with that young perversity of which she had as large a share 


78 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


as any of her contemporaries, did not greatly like the 
looking after by which she benefited ; but unlike many of 
her contemporaries, she had a great capacity for reverence, 
an ardent aifection in return for kindness ; and she attach- 
ed herself with warm gratitude to this woman, whom she 
could not greatly like, with whom she had perhaps not one 
idea in common. For it is the large compensation that 
life offers for the hardness of life, that to one trained in 
harshness each human kindness comes as a divine surprise, 
an unlooked-for gift from heaven. And something of this 
nature, in its degree, had Mrs. Sparrow’s kindness taken 
on itself in Eliasbeth’s eyes. 

She followed that portly lady now into a long and rather 
dingy dining-room, where on a long table, covered by a 
cloth not absolutely fresh, was spread the nondescript 
meal known indifferently as tea or supper. Frau Werner 
was an excellent woman ; but the terms on which she receiv- 
ed her pensionnaires forbade a very lofty ideal in the matter of 
forks and spoons and table-linen. The food, however, was 
abundant, and some twenty people seated round the table 
were contemplating in a moment of suspense the singular 
meal of cold meat and cranberries, rolls and butter, and 
slices of sweet currant-bread, provided for their consump- 
tion. Fran Werner sat at the bottom of the table behind 
her teapot ; facing her at the top, by right of priority, sat 
Mrs. Sparrow’s adversary, Mrs. General Cleaver. Mrs. 
Sparrow herself with Elisabeth occupied the two centre 
seats on one side of the table facing her husband, who 
with his daughter sat opposite. This was Mrs. Sparrow’s 
own arrangement ; next tp the head of the table, which 
obviously (she had made the observation more than once) 
should be her place or Mr. Sparrow’s the centre was the 
best strategic position to occupy. She could control the 
conversation right and left ; and being one of those fortu- 
nate, if alarming individuals who can listen to two or three 
people speaking at once, there were few subjects intro- 
duced toward whose discussion she could not manage to 
contribute a few words. 

“My dear, say grace, if you please,” she said now, ad- 
dressing her husband before seating herself. 

The Reverend Mr. Sparrow, who was reading, looked up 
at this appeal, started to his feet, and with his hands on 
the table, looked round to secure attention. “For what 

we are about to receive ; — ” he pronounced then in 

strong tones, and sitting down again, recommenced read- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


79 


ing. He had the habit, that some people resented, of 
reading throughout supper-time, generally polemical 
pamphlets which he scored with a thick black pencil. Mr. 
Sparrow was fond of polemics, considering argument his 
strong point. He was a high-nosed man, with a thin- 
cheeked, reddish face, wisps of black hair turning gray on 
his forehead, and a harsh voice. If Elisabeth had con- 
ceived a certain affectionate gratitude for Mrs. Sparrow 
in these last weeks, she certainly felt none for her husband. 
On her gratitude, indeed, he had no claim ; he seemed 
barely to recognize her existence ; and moreover, as she 
often said to herself, he did hot look like a clergyman. 
Elisabeth, as we know, had a medium of her own through 
which she contemplated members of the clerical profes- 
sion ; but finding it impossible through that or any other 
medium to admire Mr. Sparrow’, that was how she com- 
pounded matters with her conscience. He did not look 
like a clergyman ; he looked like a Dissenting minister. It 
was perhaps well that Mr. Sparrow’ w’as not made acquain- 
ted with a comparison that would have found little favor 
in his eyes, for though he might speak of Nonconformists 
as brethren, not the less did he appreciate the dignity in 
his own person of belonging to an Established Church. 
He preached immense sermons on Sundays, to whose 
dulness Elisabeth’s ill-repressed yawms as she sat by Mrs. 
Sparrow testified. He w^as fond of discussion, as has been 
said, though he indulged in it but little at the Pension 
Werner ; no one there was worthy of his powers. He pre- 
ferred to take the field and try a fall with some man of 
science, such as he occasionally met during his ministrations 
in Switzerland or elsewhere during the summer ; and in 
these wrestlings, according to Mr. Sparrow’s subsequent re- 
ports, his scientific adversary was left nowhere at all. But 
though he set the members of the Pension Werner in 
no such cruel dilemma as might be implied by this estimate 
of his own powders, he was not more popular there — he was 
even less popular — than his wife. A very little urbanity 
would have made him so ; for the prepossessions of a 
British community abroad are all in favor of its chaplain. 
That Mr. Sparrow should have been able to set aside these 
prepossessions says worlds for the completeness with 
which he had cultivated a harsh voice and overbearing 
demeanor. 

The supper meanwhile proceeded. Frau Werner dis- 
pensed her cups of weak tea, the plates of cold meat dis- 


8o THE FAILURE OE ELISABETH 

appeared, the piles of currant-bread vanished. To Elisa- 
beth, lately emancipated from the convent-like routine of 
her school life, its one o’clock dinner and six o’clock tea, 
this curious and ascetic fare presented no hardship. She 
simply found the entertainment a dull one. She looked 
with envy on Mr. Sparrow, energetically perusing and 
scoring his pamphlet amidst general obloquy, and wished 
he might bring a book to table with her also. She also 
wished the table-cloth were fresher, the knives and forks 
less dingy ; in that respect, alas! the Pension Werner con- 
trasted most unfavorably with the Kaiserhof. She wished 
that Mrs. Sparrow would not wear that large pearl brooch ; 
that Frau Werner would wear a brooch of any kind to 
fasten a gaping collar ; that Mrs. Cleaver would not feed 
her Skye-terrier Pinch at table ; that Mary Sparrow would 
not stare with such large round eyes at Herr Nauders, the 
young divinity student who boarded at Frau Werner’s, 
then blush and turn away when he looked in her direction ; 
that Mrs. Sparrow and Mary finally, conniving at Mr. 
Sparrow’s habit of leaving his supper untouched whilst 
he pursued his studies, would not prolong their own meal 
indefinitely and keep Frau Werner and everyone else 
waiting. From all which, it will be perceived that Elisa- 
beth, in the midst of various matters for content, was by 
no means without that measure of displeasure that is sup- 
posed to render more exquisite the pleasures of life. The 
meals at Frau Werner’s were, in fact, a daily penance to 
her. She left her books for them with reluctance ; she 
escaped from them with joy. But indeed, what heroine, 
gazing with high romantic thoughts from her roof-cham- 
ber, visited by sun, moon, and stars above a wide historic 
view, could be expected complacently to descend to a 
dusky ground-floor parlor to eat dull food in the com- 
pany of duller people? Such complacency was, at any 
rate, beyond the reach of Elisabeth. 

To-night, however, fate, in a conceding mood, had a 
diversion in store. A letter was brought to her toward 
the conclusion of the meal, forwarded from the Pension 
Elder, where, by the advice of the Baroness, she had left 
her address with the woman in charge of the now empty 
house. Elisabeth had thought it a needless precaution ; 
she had hardly a correspondent in the world except her 
aunt, whose letters, she felt sure, would never go astray. 
But she was glad now that she had taken it, for this letter 
was not from Mrs. Verrinder ; it was addressed in a writ- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 8i 

ing quite unknown to her. She held it in her hand, study- 
ing the direction, trying to guess the writer before open- 
ing the envelope. Mrs. Sparrow’s vigilant eye was upon 
it in an instant. 

‘‘ A letter ! ” she said. “ Why, the post is not due for an 
hour yet. Oh, I see ; forwarded from the Pension Elder. 
Dear me, I seem to know that writing ; it is certainly 
familiar to me, if I could only recall whose it is. James,” 
taking the letter without ceremony from Elisabeth’s hand 
and passing it across the table to her husband, “ whose is 
that writing? I know it, I am sure.” 

The Reverend Mr. Sparrow looked up from his pamph- 
let and contemplated the letter presented to him. “ Hol- 
land’s,” he said. ‘‘ It’s Holland’s handwriting ; and why he 
doesn’t write to me I cannot imagine. I sent him the 
address of this place more than a fortnight ago, and asked 
him if he would like a room engaged for him, and have 
had no answer. He will have to go elsewhere now ; every 
room is taken.” 

Mr. Sparrow became lost in his pamphlet again. Mrs. 
Sparrow took up the letter and studied the address anew. 

^‘Of course,” she said, “it is Mr. Holland’s handwriting. 
I was not aware, my dear Elisabeth, that he was a friend 
of yours. You had better open it at once, my dear, and 
see if there is any message to Mr. Sparrow.” 

She handed the letter back to Elisabeth, who, excited 
beyond words by its arrival, and deeply indignant at the 
treatment it had received, crushed it into the pocket of 
her dress. 

“ I don’t think there can be any message to Mr. Spar- 
row,” she said. “ Mr. Holland couldn’t know that I know 
him.” 

“ My dear, the British chaplain is always, or ought al- 
ways to be known by every member of his congregation. 
Oblige me, Elisabeth, by opening that letter. Mr. Spar- 
row, as you hear, is anxious for news of Mr. Holland.” 

Thus adjured, Elisabeth drew forth the sacred epistle 
(she had meant to read it with a thousand emotions in the 
privacy of her own room), and slowly opened it. It was 
a thick letter; its thickness had added to her excitement. 
What could Mr. Holland, if Mr. Holland it indeed were, 
have to say to her at such length ? She opened it, and, to 
her confusion, an enclosure, addressed to the Reverend 
James Sparrow, fell out. Mrs. Sparrow instantly pounced 
upon it. 


82 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


“ My dear/’ she said, “ wliat did I tell you ? Believe me, 
Elisabeth, I never speak without reason. Another time 
you will trust me, I hope.” 

But Elisabeth was already lost in the perusal of her 
own letter. It consisted, as she saw at a glance, of a few 
lines only: 

Dear Miss Verrinder : I venture to presume on our 
very slight acquaintance to request you to forward the 
enclosed letter to Mr. Sparrow, the resident English chap- 
lain at Schlossberg. You will, I think, have no difficulty 
in ascertaining his address, of which I am, for the moment, 
unfortunately ignorant. A letter I was expecting from 
him must have missed me, I imagine, in my wanderings; 
and as it is of some importance for me to communicate 
with him at once, I shall be exceedingly indebted to you 
if you will do me the favor to see that the enclosed reaches 
his hands. I hope before long to thank you in person, as 
I expect to be in Schlossberg in about a fortnight. 

‘‘Yours very faithfully, 

“ Robert Holland. 

“ P.S. — As I hope so soon to see you, give yourself no 
anxiety for the moment, I beg, about our little money 
transaction. It can perfectly well wait to be arranged till 
we meet.” 


CHAPTER XHI. 

MRS. CLEAVER MAKES HERSELF DISAGREEABLE. 

The meal was over, and Elisabeth escaped up the long 
flights of stairs to her own room, to put away her precious 
letter. Precious beyond words — very literally beyond 
words, since of words in it there were so few, and those 
for the most part so insignificant. But since most of my 
readers (presumably) have once been seventeen, the fact 
need not be insisted on that at that unwise age the signifi- 
cance of a letter may, on occasion, altogether outstrip the 
importance of its actual contents. Precious beyond words, 
then, to our Elisabeth, from the dotting of the first / to the 
crossing of the last t ; yet with an element of disquietude 
in it, too, that she felt she should discover when she had 
time to consider it with more attention. For the moment 


THE FAIL C/EE OF ELISABETH, 


83 


she could only glance through it once more, then fold it 
up, and put it away carefully in her writing-case before run- 
ning down-stairs again. 

My dear,’' Mrs. Sparrow had said, as she left the din- 
ing-room, ^‘oblige me by coming down to the salon this 
evening. It looks ill, Elisabeth, for a young girl to make 
herself singular by altogether absenting herself from the 
society of the house. And bring some work with you, my 
dear, or some knitting ; you idle away far too much time, 
I fear, in unprofitable dreaming over your books.” 

“I can come to-night,” said Elisabeth, rather disconso- 
lately. “ I generally do my class preparation in the eve- 
ning, but I have finished it to-night. I don’t know how 
to knit, and I don’t like work ; but I will bring down what 
I have.” 

Elisabeth then dutifully hunted up a thimble, a pair of 
scissors, and a scrap of white embroidery embrowned by 
age, and slowly descended the stairs again to the little 
salon. It was a room that had few attractions for her. 

Left to herself, she would never have gone into it, so 
much did she prefer the silence, the solitude, the freedom, 
the dear companionship of books in her attic. But there 
was no element of considered rebellion in the girl’s nat- 
ure ; when she rebelled it was in mere impulse and pas- 
sion of the moment. Obediently, therefore, she went 
down to spend a long evening, whose dulness, she decided 
beforehand, would be extreme. Before she opened the 
door she knew the scene that awaited her, and her 
knowledge was not disappointed : a whist-table being 
prepared in one corner; a suppressed giggling in another; 
five ladies engaged on various tapestries ; the good little 
daily governess, who boarded at Frau Werner’s, correcting 
a pile of exercises, to save candle-light in her own room ; 
Mrs. Sparrow making holland blouses at a centre-table (oc- 
casionally she creaked an enormous pair of scissors, and 
tore a breadth with a screech that set everyone’s teeth on 
edge) ; Mrs. Cleaver, with her dog on her lap, crocheting 
an immense fleecy shawl ; Mary Sparrow knitting stock- 
ings, and the young German student of divinity at her 
side, watching the movement of her plump pink fingers. 
Elisabeth knew it all by heart, and in her heart cared to 
speak to no one but the little governess, with whom she 
had made acquaintance, and who, too busy for conversa- 
tion, smiled and nodded as the girl passed by. In the 
centre of the room Mr. Sparrow was standing up, talking 


84 


THE FAILURE OF ELISA BET//, 


in a loud resonant voice that commanded the society. As 
a fact, he was only addressing his wife, but he saw no 
reason why he should modulate his usual commanding 
tones. Anyone might 'hear — nay, profit by what he was 
saying. In his hand he held the Vicar of Thornton Briar’s 
letter, 

“ Holland can’t come here,” he w^as saying. He writes 
that lie wishes to be wherever I am, and begs me to secure 
him a room. The house is full ; I have just spoken to 
Frau Werner, and there is not a room to be had. . He 
should have written a month ago. He is sure,” referring 
to the letter, that wherever we are must be comfortable 
and economical, and hopes to be of use to me on Sunday 
whenever his health permits. He might have waited to 
say that, I think, till he was asked, if he wants, as I sup- 
pose, to occupy my pulpit. I prefer, as a rule, to occupy 
my own pulpit ; and he is very little of a preacher, to my 
mind.” 

“ Oh, he can hardly have mea?nt that, my dear,” said 
Mrs. Sparrow, intent on her blouses ; “he only meant, I 
dare say, that he would be happy to read the lessons occa- 
sionally. He never struck me as a forward person.” 

Mr. Sparrow put the letter in his pocket. 

“ You’re mistaken, my dear,” he said. “ Holland has as 
good an opinion of himself as any man living. I have not 
a word to say against him as a brother clergyman ; he is 
excellent, excellent in a parish, but no great preacher, to 
my mind, though I know he thinks himself one. Besides, 
I don’t know that I could trust him in my pulpit. I by 
no means hold with all his views, as you are aware, my 
dear ; I have always disapproved of them, indeed. Hol- 
land has sound judgment ; I don’t deny him that, and I 
don’t believe he will ever go to extremes ; but I have 
heard various things about his doings lately that are by no 
means consistent with the truth as it has been delivered to 
us. I intend to speak about it to him when he comes.” 

“ Mr. Holland ! ” said Mrs. Cleaver, suddenly joining in 
the conversation. “Now, what Mr. Holland is that, I 
should like to know ? / knew a Mr. Holland once, and 

thought very little of him, I can assure you.” 

No one immediately answered. Mrs. Cleaver — she W'as 
the widow of an officer who had spent most of his term of 
service in India — was a little, round-featured w’oman of 
about sixty, with smooth bands of hair under a widow’s 
cap, rosy cheeks, and a small thin-lipped mouth, that 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


85 


emitted a sort of pinched, unemphatic voice and pronun- 
ciation. Though small, she bore herself with dignity; her 
widow’s cap, one of the more pronounced kind, had long 
floating weepers ; the black crape of her gown was relieved 
by very wide-hemmed muslin bands, and a good many 
shining jet ornaments. Frau Werner, whose varied expe- 
rience enabled her to characterize her visitors with some 
precision, did not like Mrs. Cleaver. That woman,” she 
said on one occasion, I think she have a devil in her ; 
heaven forgive me such a word, but that is so. She looks 
so rosy, she speaks so softly, and then you find she holds, 
and holds, and holds ; yes, it is like a devil. ‘ But dear 
Frau Generalinn,’ I say to her sometimes, ‘one must let 
go a little ; we must all of us now and then let go.’ But 
no, she has her idea, and she holds. And Mrs. Sparrow, 
she have her idea, too, but she is like wax by Mrs. Cleaver ; 
and that is how it goes on. Mrs. Sparrow, she likes to pull, 
and Mrs. Cleaver, she holds, and with both in the house 
together, there is no peace — never ! ” No one at once 
answered Mrs. Cleaver now. Mr. Sparrow, who disap- 
proved of her strongly — she had the habit of attending 
the German Lutheran Church to evade his ministrations 
— glared at her for a moment, and dropping into an arm- 
chair, took a pamphlet from his pocket and began to read. 
Mrs. Sparrow gathered herself together, then said with 
dignity : 

“The Reverend Robert Holland, Vicar of Thornton 
Briars, is my husband’s particular friend.” 

“The Reverend Robert Holland— oh, indeed!” said 
Mrs. Cleaver; “ mine was the Reverend Robert Holland, 
too, curate at the church I attended for twenty years. A 
very reverend young man indeed : embezzled the church 
funds, and would have made off with them, no doubt, but 
that the Rector found it out in time. The matter was 
hushed up. I should not have hushed it up ; I should have 
had the young fellow tried and convicted, curate or no 
curate ; but parsons always hang together, I find. I heard 
of the affair, though it was kept as much as possible in the 
dark, and other people would have heard of it also if I had 
not unfortunately been starting for India almost the day it 
happened. Nothing would have pleased me better than 
to sift it to the bottom. The young man disappeared, 
however ; I don’t know what became of him. I have very 
little doubt this is the same ; all the clergy who come 
abroad have something shady in the back ground, I 


86 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


believe. No doubt it is the same. Pinch, come here, 
sir ! ” 

Pinch, a dog of very ingenuous mind, had jumped from 
his mistress’s knee, and was now creating a diversion in 
the room by making the round of the company, erecting 
himself in a begging posture with his front paws in the 
air before each individual in turn. Begging was his only 
accomplishment, and he exercised it in the face of constant 
disappointment with a simple and confiding perseverance 
that could not but touch the least susceptible heart. Every- 
body liked Pinch, and one well-meaning old lady gave 
him a cough-lozenge, which Pinch, with a true sense of 
delicacy, swallowed without a single protest. These 
friendly demonstrations quite diverted public attention 
from the rather heated conversation going on in the mid- 
dle of the room. 

No such thing ! ” Mr. Sparrow was saying in loud and 
abrupt tones, in reply to Mrs. Cleaver’s last remark. ‘‘You 
are in error, madam. The Vicar of Thornton Briars is my 
friend, a clergyman of the highest merit and the most un- 
sullied reputation. Allow me to contradict once and for 
all, and in the most emphatic manner, this most scandalous 
story, and to express my surprise that your undisguised 
animosity to the Church should degenerate into reckless 
and mendacious gossip about an individual.” 

“ Oh, indeed !” said Mrs. Cleaver. “Allow me to ex- 
press my surprise at your extraordinary manner of address- 
ing me, sir. You accuse me of animosity to the Church, 
but I nevertheless see no reason why a man should not be 
a gentleman though he is a parson. Reckless and menda- 
cious gossip ! There may be more than one Robert 
Holland in the world ; I don’t say there is not ; the name 
is of no such great distinction ! But do you suppose I in- 
vented the story ? Pinch, come here, sir. We will go 
upstairs. I object to the company in which I find myself.” 

“ Hush — sh,” said Mrs. Sparrow, waving her hand. 
“ Allow me, Mrs. Cleaver; there are young people present ; 
such heated language is unseemly, to say the least of it. 
Elisabeth, my love, come and sit by me. You have brought 
your work, I see ; that is right. Not very useful, though, my 
dear, is it ? Suppose you go on with one of these Christian 
Mission blouses, whilst I read aloud the last report of the 
mission to you and Mary. Herr Nauders might like to 
listen, too ; it will improve his English, besides being 
deeply interesting in itself,” 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


87 


Elisabeth, standing behind Mrs. Sparrow’s chair, had 
been listening with vivid interest to the foregoing conversa- 
tion. For the first time she regarded Mr. Sparrow with 
something approaching approval. His reply to Mrs. 
Cleaver seemed to her a model of just and direct rebuke. 
How could people be so wicked ? she wondered. Mrs. 
Cleaver disliked the English chaplain and his wife; be- 
cause she disliked them, she tried to vilify their friend. 
Elisabeth took the seat and the needlework indicated by 
Mrs. Sparrow, but she did not hear a word of the reading 
that worthy woman immediately began in a more than 
semi-audible voice for the benefit of her immediate neigh- 
bors. Elisabeth felt an absolute unconcern in regard to 
the little African heathen in whose behalf she was prick- 
ing her fingers. She sewed a seam up on the wrong side, 
and began unpicking it in extreme impatience. She could 
have embraced Frau Werner, who, appearing in the door- 
way, came that moment to her rescue. • 

“Miss Verrinder — ” she said. “Ah, you are there. 
Your good friend Baroness von Leuwine is in my parlor, 
and would wish to speak to you.” 

Elisabeth threw down the blouse and jumped up, letting 
her scissors fall with a crash to the ground. Mrs. Sparrow 
looked up severely. 

“ My dear,” she said, “you interrupt me.” 

“ I beg your pardon,” said Elisabeth, abashed. “I did 
not mean to disturb you. Please don’t wait for me ; I 
think I must go to the Baroness if she wants to speak to 
me.” And, fearful of further detention, she slipped away 
and out of the room. Mrs. Sparrow looked after her and 
shook her head. 

“ A thoughtless girl, I fear,” she said. “We will pro- 
ceed, however. But where, my dear Mary, is Herr Naud- 
ers ? ” 

“ I think, mamma, he thought you had finished read- 
ing,” said the blushing Mary, “ so he went away. He 
doesn’t understand English very well, you know. And I 
think, mamma, the other people don’t like our reading 
aloud very much ; it seems to disturb them.” 

Mrs. Sparrow closed her mission report. “ It need 
disturb no one,” she said. “All are welcome to listen, and 
all would profit by what they hear. But under the cir- 
cumstances, Mary, we had better, perhaps, postpone our 
reading. I should like Elisabeth to hear the close of the 
report. She is a very thoughtless child, and it might make 


88 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


her reflect. As for Herr Nauders, you must talk to him, 
Mary ; he is anxious to learn English, I know, and should 
be grateful for the opportunity to blend instruction with 
edification.” 

Elisabeth, meanwhile, had found the Baroness in Frau 
Werner’s stuffy little parlor, surrounded by that worthy 
woman’s three flaxen-tailed and pinafored children. Mad- 
ame von Leuwine was one of those benevolent, charming 
people who like children, quand meme^ and who go through 
the world with their pockets full of excellent things to at- 
tract them as surely as honey attracts bees. Mina, Lina, 
and Lotte were each in turn thrusting a fat arm up to the 
elbow in a sort of capacious wallet hanging at the Baron- 
ess’s side, and shouting with glee at the treasure which 
each grimy little fist displayed as it unclosed. The entrance 
of their mother with Elisabeth somewhat checked this inno- 
cent pastime. 

“ St — St ! ” she said, pulling them away one by one, and 
rubbing their sticky fingers and noses with a substantial 
linen handkerchief. ^^No, I say, Lotte, no: come here, 
Lina; come here, Mina; is that how we behave to the 
gracious Baroness ? Let the gracious lady be, I tell you ; 
she has had enough of you ; she has had too much of you ; 
she will have no more of you ; she wishes to talk to Miss 
Verrinder. There, run to Kathchen ; she may give you 
some stewed pears before you go to bed.” 

Elisabeth had come in with a flush on her cheek, a shy 
smile in her eyes. The Baroness had foreseen rightly ; she 
had made the girl love her in the fortnight they had spent 
together. She went up to her friend now, and sitting 
down close beside her on the little leather sofa, put her 
hand in hers. The action pleased Madame von Leuwine. 
She took the girl’s hand in botli her own, patting it 
kindly. 

“ So,” she said ; ^^and how are we getting on ? Not too 
much study, eh ? Not too many hours at the books ? ” 

‘‘ Oh, no,” said Elisabeth. I like study. I like read- 
ing better than anything.” 

‘‘Yes, yes,” said the Baroness, “we know all about that ; 
but all work and no play makes Jack a dull girl— a dull 
girl,” she repeated, still patting Elisabeth’s hand. “And 
girls have no business to be dull. They have to make 
themselves agreeable ; they have to talk, and flirt, and be 
amiable, and keep us older ones from growing rusty. Yes, 
yes, that is quite as essential as going to college or to 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


89 


classes, as is the fashion in these days. We must have a 
little play as well. And that is why I am here this even- 
ing. What do you say to going to the opera to-morrow 
night ? ” 

‘‘Oh!” said Elisabeth, her eyes widening; “I have 
never been to the opera in my life.” 

“ Never been to the opera ? ” cried the Baroness. 
“Why, how old are you ? Seventeen, eighteen, and never 
been to the opera ? Why, I began to go when I was five 
years old. You will come with me to-morrow evening. I 
have taken a box. The opera here is not bad, not at all ; 
on the contrary, it is rather good. Come to dinner at half- 
past five. You have a white frock ; that will do, and come 
in your hat, you know. You can take it off if you find it 
too warm.” 

The Baroness patted Elisabeth’s hand again, and gave a 
little straightening pull to the bow at the girl’s throat. 
“And how are you getting on!” she said again. “You 
are happy here ? You like it. Oh, don’t be afraid of Frau 
Werner there ; she will tell you it is not everyone who 
likes her pension.” 

“ Ah, no ? ” cried the poor woman. “ I could sometimes 
say it is no one. I say to myself sometimes : ‘ Why, then, 
do they come.^’ Occasionally I say it to them. They 
are not all like Miss Elisabeth here ; she never complains.” 

“ But I do like it,” said the girl. “ I am very happy here, 
very. I was never so happy before ! Everybody is kind, 
and I can do almost what I like. Oh, I wish I could stay 
here for ever ! ” 

“So, you do what you like?” said the Baroness, rising 
to go. “And what does our lady chaplainess — what does 
Mrs. Sparrow say to that ? ” 

“ She is very kind,” said Elisabeth, lovally. “ I don’t so 
much mind people interfer — speaking to me when they are 
kind.” 

“ Well, well,” said the Baroness, “you are a good child. 
You can be trusted, I think.” She looked at Elisabeth 
with kind and shrewd eyes, while she arranged her volum- 
inous cloak. “ You can be trusted, I think, not to get into 
any mischief, eh ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Elisabeth, reddening a little. “ I 
don’t want to get into any mischief ; I don’t think 1 know 
how.” 

“And that is just why you will not,” said the Baroness, 
nodding at her kindly ; “ never a girl but knows how to get 


90 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


into mischief if she has a mind to. And now good-by, 
my dear. I have two words to say to Frau Werner here 
before I go. Don’t forget half-past five to-morrow — punc- 
tual.” 

Elisabeth did not return to the salon after leaving the 
Baroness ; she absolved herself from further duty in that 
direction ; she slipped past the door and fled swiftly up 
the stairs to her own chamber. It was all dark and silent 
there. Elisabeth did not immediately light the little lamp 
by which it was her custom to pursue her evening studies. 
She groped her way to the window, and drawing back the 
chintz curtain that hung before it, threw the casement 
open to the mild October night. It was quite dark now ; 
the latest sunset twilight was fallen dead behind the hills ; 
only the stars shone white and dim in a misty sky. Cool 
breaths of air touched her cheek ; there was the sound of 
a distant piano and singing, the sudden rattle now and 
again of a passing carriage in the street far below, the 
vague murmur of a town not yet settled down into the 
silence of night ; here and there a light gleamed from 
some upper window. Elisabeth, half kneeling, half crouch- 
ing on a chair by the window, her arms resting on the sill, 
looked out on it all. Her heart was beating quickly, she 
could not tell why ; partly still, perhaps, with her rapid 
flight up the stairs ; partly with the sentiment of the wide 
life spread there below her, palpitating beneath those 
darkling city roofs ; partly, perhaps — partly with the un- 
certain sense of some event drawing near ; an event that 
should have thrilled her surely with a sense of unimagined 
happiness, but for a stray disquietude or pain that made 
her shrink, rather, from dwelling on it at all. 

A girl’s heart is dark to all, it is said ; but to no one 
more than to herself. Elisabeth had said truly to the 
Baroness she did not know how to get into mischief ; the 
tortuous paths by which some girls enter on their expe- 
rience of life were inconceivable by her. She was both 
innocent and ignorant ; so much, at least, her suppressed, 
convent-like existence had done for her ; more, she had 
the touch of indifference, the trick of scorn, that a rigid 
training can impart to a naturally refined and religion- 
seeking mind. Her school-world had been no convent, 
after all ; a dozen girls would put their heads together to 
whisper their silly secrets, their foolish chatter, and Elisa- 
beth had held aloof from it all. %ut although, through 
ignorance or innocence, or principle, or natural gifts, so 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


91 


various is the medley that finally determines human action, 
Elisabeth was incapable of getting into mischief in the 
ordinary meaning of the word, she had an uneasy con- 
sciousness at that very moment of being in some sort of 
entanglement, out of which she did not clearly see her 
way. The consciousness had been upon her ever since 
she read Mr. Holland’s note ; and presently it so far gained 
the upper hand that she closed the window, lighted her 
lamp, and took out the letter to read it again. In a fort- 
night Mr. Holland would be in Schlossberg ; and then, he 
wrote, he would expect the settlement of her debt. Elisa- 
beth was happily unvisited by the sense that a little more 
experience would have given her, that after such a letter 
she ought to do no less than send off the hundred-mark 
note by return of post ; still less did it occur to her that 
Mr. Holland should never have mentioned the matter at 
all. She still believed implicitly every word that was said 
to her ; she was incapable of reading between the lines 
— happily, I say ; for the fact was that of that famous 
hundred-mark note not a coin remained. 

When at the end of her fortnight’s stay at the Kaiserhof 
Elisabeth’s bill had been presented to her, she had gazed 
at it in dismay. Mrs. Verrinder, it is true, had foreseen 
that in giving her consent to Elisabeth’s remaining at the 
hotel her niece’s expenses might probably exceed the 
remnant of pocket-money she supposed might be in Eliza- 
beth’s purse at the end of her journey. But instead of 
forwarding more money to the girl, she had simply writ- 
ten to the Baroness, begging her to make good any deficit 
for the present ; adding that all these matters should be 
arranged when Elisabeth was settled with Frau Werner. 
Of this letter Elisabeth knew nothing ; since the Baron- 
ess, naturally supposing Mrs. Verrinder had herself ex- 
plained the arrangement to her niece, and having fifty 
other affairs to occupy her mind, omitted to mention it. 
Hence Elisabeth’s moment of trepidation, when the bill, 
with its long column of items and figures, its formidable 
total, lay before her. She opened her purse. It was 
slenderly furnished as any heroine’s of romance ; still, 
what remained of the hundred-mark note, after her ex- 
penses to Schlossberg had been paid, was there intact. 
Elisabeth felt no hesitation about using it (how often after- 
wards she wondered and reproached herself that she had 
not done so) ; the money had been lent to help her out of 
a difficulty ; it did not occur to her at the moment that it 


92 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


might be better to reserve so much of it as was left Only 
what was left did not cover a third of the amount of the 
bill before her. Quivering with dismay, slie gathered up 
the bill and her purse and ran off to the Baroness. To 
her relief Madame von Leuwine treated the whole thing 
as a matter of course. 

This is all the money you have?” she said, taking 
Elisabeth’s purse ; but that is no matter at all. Your 
aunt begged me to advance what might be wanting. I 
shall settle with Herr Schmidt, and write to your aunt. 
Give yourself no further trouble, dear child.” 

The matter was settled in a moment, and Elisabeth’s 
mind relieved. Only, of the famous hundred-mark not a 
coin remained. 

This did not at first greatly trouble her. Repayment 
was not imminent, and the chances, she felt, were all in 
favor of something occurring to help her out of her diffi- 
culty. Considering of how scarce occurrence such chances 
are in this perverse world, it is surprising with what guile- 
less trust mankind clings to its belief in them. It is a faith 
that survives the wrecks of a hundred creeds. Elisabeth 
k|^ew it was dreadful to be in debt ; she had not liked the 
thought of it at all ; still, seeing no immediate way out of 
it, she set up her little shrine to fate (she would save her 
own money when she had any again ; her uncle, who was 
always kind, would certainly some day send her a present) ; 
then let her dilemma lie lightly on her mind in the midst 
of her new happiness. But it was altogether different now. 
In a fortnight Mr. Holland would be in Schlossberg. As 
soon as he arrived — so much, at least, was clear to Elisa- 
beth — he would expect his money to be repaid. How in 
the course of a single fortnight was she to procure the 
sum of a hundred marks ? 

Elisabeth sat down to face the problem in blank dismay ; 
she had not an idea how to solve it, not one. Apply to 
her aunt ? Certainly, with the stake and the executioner 
on one side, let us say, and Mrs. Verrinder on the other, 
Elisabeth might have found courage to relate the whole 
story ; no less stirring emergency, and barely that, could 
have persuaded her to such a step. Her aunt could do 
her no particular harm, it is true ; still, that was how she 
felt ; and it is no part of the purpose of this narrative to 
conceal the fact that in certain directions Elisabeth was a 
sad coward ! After all, there is no arguing about these 
matters. Some people expect to be drowned whenever 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


93 


they enter a boat, others to be thrown out as soon as they 
get into a carriage ; it is a question of temperament, as one 
says. Appeal to the Baroness ? Tlie idea crossed Elisa- 
beth’s mind, but she put that aside also. The Baroness 
had won her affection, but the girl had known her a few 
weeks only ; she recoiled from the thought of demanding 
her help in such a difficulty as this. It had been different 
with Mr. Holland. She had not asked him ; he himself 
had come unasked to her rescue in a moment of such ex- 
treme embarrassment, that Elisabeth was still unable to 
imagine how she would have extricated herself without his 
help. A warm flow of gratitude filled her heart at the 
thought ; how good he had been, how prompt and gener- 
ous ! And perhaps he himself might know the want of 
money sometimes. Clergymen were often poor, that she 
knew; and one so prompt and generous of help was not 
likely to be very rich. Yes, though he wrote so kindly, he 
might be glad to have the money back ; and how was she 
to repay him — how ? 

Elisabeth sat facing the dark problem far into the hours 
of the night, but at the end of those hours it was dark as 
before ; and when she lay down to sleep at last, a weight 
was on the girl’s heart for the first time since the com- 
mencement of her new life at Schlossberg. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE baroness’s GARDEN-HOUSE. 

Elisabeth awoke the next morning with the weight still 
upon her ; but she had almost forgotten it by five o’clock 
in the afternoon of the same day, when, standing before 
her little mirror, she was engaged in carefully drawing her 
best gown over her head, shaking out the folds, arranging 
the tucker — making her toilet, in short, before going out 
to dine with Madame von Waldorf and the Baroness. 

Elisabeth, who held, on the whole, serious views of life, 
who loved books, who scorned what she would have called 
nonsense, had a most genuine love — it may as well be 
owned at once— of new and pretty clothes. It was a love 
that had found small indulgence so far ; a little school girl, 
her aunt had justly considered, no doubt, had no need of 


94 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


an elaborate or distinguished wardrobe, and she had the 
habit of herself selecting her niece’s frocks of durable and 
useful materials. On the solemn occasion of coming 
abroad, however, Elisabeth had been allowed a high white 
frock for evening wear that filled her with the most legiti- 
mate pride. It was well made, it fitted her, it was becom- 
ing ; and I should like to engage my reader’s deepest sym- 
pathies in the joy of a heroine of seventeen who for the 
first time in her life possesses a really well-made and be- 
coming frock. At the risk of incurring the reproach for 
her and for myself of the most frivolous of tastes, I venture 
to say that, within its own limits, no joy can be so com- 
plete or so entirely without a drawback. Elisabeth, con- 
templating herself in the glass with the most anxious 
scrutiny, assured herself that she was not so ugly, not so 
plain — no . . . She pulled a blue ribbon out of her drawer, 
and tied it round the thick brown locks whose picturesque 
fashion of arranging themselves made the despair of her 
life. What a discovery ! — it suited her to perfection. 
Elisabeth almost trembled to leave it there ; what would her 
aunt say to see her looking so gay, so frivolous, so well 
dressed, so pretty — the great word was out, Elisabeth felt 
herself pretty. She looked at herself again. She had one 
ornament of value with her, only one — a turquoise neck- 
lace that had belonged to her mother. She opened the 
case that held it, and took it out. It was an Oriental 
trinket, formed of heavy unset turquoises of irregular shape 
and size, each turquoise engraved with Eastern characters, 
and connected each with each by a fine gold chain. It 
was a valuable ornament, more valuable than Elisabeth, in 
her ignorance of such matters, was aware of ; she thought 
it, in fact, a trifle clumsy and heavy ; but she loved it, and 
valued it, nevertheless, for itself and for her mother’s sake. 
She fastened it round her neck now. It looked charming 
on her white frock ; it matched the ribbon in her hair 
exactly; it looked too charming. Instantly that strange, 
relentless tyrant that rules over young and sensitive souls, 
made its voice heard in Elisabeth’s heart. There was 
something wrong in looking so pretty and so well dressed 
as that . . . With a sudden movement the girl untied the 
ribbon in her hair. She could not give up her necklace 
as a peace-offering — that was demanding too much ; but 
she pulled out the ribbon, and without looking at herself 
again, put on her Sunday hat, tied her cloak, and ran 
swiftly down the stairs into the street. 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


95 


Madame von Waldorf’s house was at no great distance 
from the Pension Werner, and Elisabeth, who had the 
habit of going to and from her classes by herself, thought 
nothing of walking there alone. She walked on quickly, 
for she was rather late. It was near sunset now ; the air 
was mild, the sky clear above the old city, with little high- 
floating clouds that turned to gold, then melted away into 
the blue. Elisabeth’s spirits rose as she went. That busi- 
ness of making one’s toilet with an accusing conscience 
nudging one’s elbow is slightly depressing in its effects ; 
but Elisabeth, as she walked along, forgot it in the cheer- 
ful prospect of the evening before her. Yet her heart 
sank again a little as she rang at Madame von Waldorf’s 
door. The girl was no longer sliy with the Baroness, but 
she was never altogether at her ease with Emilia. Madame 
von Waldorf imposed a little on our heroine. Her beauty, 
her air of good society, her unembarrassed ease, had the 
effect of making Elisabeth feel a dull little school-girl at 
her side. She did not like to feel like a school-girl ; hence 
a ceritain trepidation as she rang the bell and followed the 
servant through the hall into a long salon opening on to a 
terrace and garden beyond. 

It was the most agreeable room in Madame von Wal- 
dorf’s agreeable house. Her husband’s literary and scien- 
tific tastes had led him to begin the collection of a large 
library, and the ample and lofty room, lined in part with 
brown-backed or vellum-bound volumes, had something 
of the severer aspect of a study ; but its sunny outlook on 
the garden, its long windows opening on to the terrace, 
had induced Emilia to use it habitually both as a sitting 
and reception room, contrasting its severity with pictures 
and tables strewn with the paper-bound literature of the 
day, with her piano and embroideries and flowers. Charm- 
ing as it was, however, it was not the room that Elisabeth, 
in her acquaintance with the house, had learnt to prefer. 
There was an apartment upstairs, looking out upon an 
umbrageous corner of the garden, that the Baroness called 
her studio ; the scene, in fact, of her moments of industry 
and her moments of relaxation. Here she modelled in 
clay, which was her pleasure ; here she wrote letters in- 
numerable, and attended to the accounts of her school for 
young girls, which was her business ; and she might have 
found it hard to decide whether in business or pleasure 
she found the larger entertainment. Here Elisabeth felt 
at home and at ea§e. Sh$ had visited it more than once ; 


96 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


for the Baroness, constantly on the look-out for new sub- 
jects, had begun to model the girls head in clay. 

“ You are not a beauty, my dear child,” she said to her 
one day ; your glass has told you so much, no doubt. 
But your face is not amiss, not at all ; and you have a good 
head — a good head, and something in it. Hold it up in 
the world, and don’t be afraid. There is nothing in life 
to be afraid of, my dear, if you would only believe it. 
What are you afraid of, eh ?” 

Oh ! ” said Elisabetli, coloring and laughing in her shy 
fashion. But she was no longer much afraid of the Ba- 
roness, at any rate ; she liked sitting to her and with 
her; she was sorry that the servant showed her now into 
the room downstairs, where she had hardly yet been. The 
man, opening the door, allowed her to enter, then retired, 
saying he would tell his mistress, and Elisabeth advanced 
alone down the long apartment. The western light shone 
in her eyes, and she thought at first the room was empty. 
In a moment, however, she perceived that she was not 
alone. Gordon Temple was seated with his back to her 
in a big arm-chair, and beside him was little Ida, engaged 
in her favorite entertainment of diving her hand deep into 
one pocket and another of his coat. 

^‘You’ve got it ! I know you’ve got it ! ” she was saying. 
‘Hf you don’t give it to me in one, free, six, two minutes. 
I’ll never kiss you nor love you again I ” 

‘‘ Never again ? Oh, come now, I don’t believe that.’J 

‘‘ No, never again,” cried the child, capering round him. 

I shall perfectly detest you, I can tell you ! When I put 
on my new frock I shall run away, away, that you mayn’t 
never see me in it at all.” 

“Then I shall run after you and catch you, so !” said 
her cousin, suddenly starting up and capturing her. As 
she struggled, screaming and laughing, in his arms, she 
caught sight of Elisabeth, and all at once became preter- 
natu rally grave. Her cousin, turning to see the reason, 
set her down on the ground and went forward to meet 
Elisabeth. 

“ You come to a house full of unpunctual people. Miss 
Verrinder,” he said. “ The Baroness told us she should 
be late. She has gone to one of her school committees, 
and as everything has been going wrong lately, she foresaw 
it would take some time to set matters right. And my 
cousin Emilia has only this moment come in. She com- 
missioned me to entertain you while she dresses for din- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


97 


ner.” He looked at her rather vaguely. “ Won’t you take 
off your hat or cloak or soinetliing ? or would you rather 
come into the garden for a quarter of an hour ? ” 

‘‘Yes, please — the garden,” said Elisabeth, rather hur- 
riedly. This prospect of a tHe-d-tete with Mr. Temple ap- 
peared to her in the last degree alarmihg. The two had 
met not infrequently at the Kaiserhof, but they had ex- 
changed h.ardly a dozen words, and if the truth must be 
told, Elisabeth had given this new acquaintance hardly 
a dozen thoughts. He was the sort of person, so she 
would have expressed herself, with whom she had no con- 
cern. It is true she had no knowledge of what sort of per- 
son he was, beyond, vaguely, the fact that he gave lec- 
tures ; but he was young ; he had the air and fashion (the 
lectures notwithstanding) of a man in society; he some- 
times wore a flower in his buttonhole ; he was a remote 
young man, in short — one of that order of young men 
who, to Elisabeth’s apprehension, concerned her about as 
much as if they inhabited the planet Mars. What on 
earth, was her instant reflection now, was she to talk about 
Thegarden, visited by the sunset light, seemed easier ground 
than the salon ; at least, they would move about ; they 
could speak of the sky and the weather. Tliey stepped out 
on to the terrace ; three steps, descending, led from it to a 
straight path that intersected the enclosure, and was inter- 
rupted by a central pond kept fresh by some hidden 
source. Other intersecting paths divided the garden four- 
square, a parterre in each division, a statue here and 
there, here and there a moss-grown seat, a shady alley 
down one side, a sort of garden-house, or closed summer- 
house, in one angle of the wall. Beyond tlie outer boun- 
dary rose other trees, their thin branches hung with yellow 
leaves against the gray-blue sky ; for the grounds of one 
of the college buildings lay adjacent to Madame von Wal- 
dorf’s garden, and gave it an air of seclusion unusual in a 
city. For a city garden, indeed, it had a singular charm 
of peace and tranquil calm. Elisabeth, who had never 
been in it before, though she had looked down on the 
shady alley from the Baroness’s room, could have fancied 
herself miles distant from the Pension Werner. The 
charm gained on her ; she forgot that she ought to make 
remarks about the weather and the sky ; she walked on in 
silence. She and her companion strayed down the central 
walk, and stood gazing for a minute at the pond. The 
little gold-colored clouds, turning rosy and then melting 


98 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


away, were still drifting slowly overhead, and were reflected 
in the clear pool at their feet. Other gleams of red and 
gold were there, darting to and fro. Gordon poked a stick 
into the water. 

“These are Ida’s gold fish,” he said ; “she might come 
and feed them for our entertainment.” He raised his 
voice : “ Ida ! ” he called once or twice. 

“ She must have run upstairs to her mother,” he said, 
as there came no response ; “ and I have no bread in my 
pocket.” He looked at Elisabetli doubtfully, rather as if 
he thought her another child that had to be entertained. 
“Let us go on,” he said ; “you have not seen the garden 
before ? Well, it is not very large, as you perceive ; we 
can visit it all before dinner.” 

They turned down another walk, bordered with rose- 
trees, still pink and white and fragrant, with an occasional 
stone pillar supporting a bust or a figure. Before one of 
these Gordon paused. 

“Here is my autograph,” he said, pointing to some 
roughly cut letters in the stone. “Now, that should be 
looked on with respect, as destined to be shown one day 
as the autograph of a great man. That was my idea, at 
least, when I cut it here some ten years ago ; perhaps my 
views have changed a little since then. Ten years make 
a gpod deal of difference in one’s point of view, as you 
will discover when you are as old as I am. Miss Verrin- 
der.” 

Elisabeth looked at him, laughed a little, then colored 
and looked down, embarrassed. 

“Don’t you agree with me?” he said; “ah, that is 
because you have no experience yet ; you don’t know. 
You don’t know what it feels like to be an old fellow. 
You have all the happiness of youth in your hands yet.” 

“I don’t know,” said Elisabeth; “I mean, I shouldn’t 
have thought you so very old,” she continued, with awk- 
ward naivete. 

Her companion laughed. “Well, I feel pretty old,” he 
said. “ Ten years ago, I remember, I used to find every- 
one older than myself ; now I seem to find a good many 
people younger ; you can have no idea what a difference 
that makes! Still, there are people older than I am, no 
doubt.” 

“ Besides,” Elisabeth continued, paying no great heed 
to this last remark, “ I don’t see the use of being great 
when one is very young ; I mean it is a sort of accident ; 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


99 


I mean it is better to be great after a long life — I know 
what I mean, but I can’t express myself very clearly.” 

‘‘ Oh, you express yourself very well,” said her com- 
panion, good-naturedly ; ‘^and what you say is very true. 
Only the length of life is comparative, you know ; ten 
years count as much as sixty sometimes. By-the-bye, 
wouldn’t you like to see how Madame von Leuwine has 
immortalized us all, big folk and little ? She has put us 
all into that summer-house there. I tell her it is like an 
Etruscan tomb, and that she has buried us all before our 
time, but she insists upon it that we are made immortal. 
She is doing your head, is she not? I was certain she 
wouldn’t let you off ; it is astonishing how many patient 
victims she finds.” 

‘‘ I like it,” said Elisabeth, flushing, and loyal to the 
Baroness. 

“ Oh, she likes it, too,” said Gordon, smiling ; and to 
most young girls might have made some further remark 
that, leading to an agreeable flirtation, would have insured 
sufficient entertainment for the next quarter of an hour. 
But nothing could well be more difficult than to institute 
even an incipient flirtation with Elisabeth. She took 
everything said with such absolute sincerity, so entirely 
au pied de la lettre^ that a flirtation hardly suggested itself 
with her, more than it might with St. Agnes or St. Doro- 
thea, should one happen to meet either of them out 
walking with her roses or her lamb. Those saints might 
probably be considered dull company in a modern draw- 
ing-room, and I am not prepared to say that Elisabeth’s 
gift of honesty and lack of repartee were calculated to 
enliven society. She made no reply now to Gordon’s last 
remark, and followed him in silence as he opened the 
door and led the way into the little garden-house that has 
already been mentioned as occupying one corner of the 
garden. 

“Here we all are,” he said; “here. Miss Verrinder, is 
the family mausoleum. I must explain to you that this 
temple of art is the joy and pride of the Baroness ; she 
has arranged it all herself. It is a pity now that you are 
not a cousin, not even the fraction of a cousin, for then 
you might find a place here too. The remotest fraction 
would be sufficient.” 

Windows facing to the north and east sufficiently illu- 
minated the little building, which was of perfectly simple 
construction and arrangement. It had, in fact, been de- 


lOO 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


vised by the Baroness some years previously, as a fitting 
place in which to deposit mementos, by her own hand, of 
her nephew and his wife, and of ever3"one belonging to 
them who could be persuaded to sit to her. Tlie busts 
were in terra-cotta, and, by a judicious arrangement of 
light and of arched recesses, were shown to the best 
advantage. Mottoes ran round the walls ; wreaths were 
suspended here and there. The whole place was essen- 
tially German in character ; only a Teutonic mind, per- 
haps, could iiave conceived it ; but Elisabeth (she would 
have been in sympathy, indeed, with anything done by 
the Baroness) gazed in admiration, and though not devoid 
of a latent sense of humor, was unable to perceive why 
her companion seemed disposed to take the whole thing 
humorously. 

“Here we all are,” lie said again, looking round ; “and 
we all think everyone flattered but ourselves. As for me, 
I can never persuade myself I am quite such an ugly fel- 
low as Madame von Leuwine makes me out. Let me see, 
whom will you recognize ? There is my cousin Emilia, 
you see ; that is not such a success, to my mind, as little 
Ida here. That, I always tell the Baroness, is the best 
thing she has done. Then here are my cousin Otto and 
his wife, and the Baroness herself ; we insisted on having 
her own portrait ” 

“Who is that?” said Elisabeth, with a sudden start. 

“ That ? Oh, that,” said Gordon, “ is Madame von 
Waldorf’s half-brother, Robert Holland. It was done 
some years ago, when he was in Vienna for a month. It 
is not very good. Madame von Leuwine wished to include 
him in her series of the family, but he didn’t much care 
about sitting, I fancy, and it is no great result, as you 
see.” 

Elisabeth had colored deeply. “ Madame von Waldorf’s 
half-brother?” she said; “I didn’t know she had one. 
Do you mean Mr. Holland, the clergyman ?” 

“ Why, yes, I suppose so,” answered her companion. 
“ Do you know him ? ” 

“ Yes — no ; I met him on board the boat coming here. 
He was very kind to me,” said Elisabeth, with some inco- 
herence. “I didn’t know Madame von Waldorf had a 
half brother ; I never heard her speak of him.” 

“Oh, that’s likely enough ; they are not very intimate,” 
said Gordon ; “ they have not met for years ; their lives 
have lain altogether apart. So you know Robert Hoi- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


loi 


land?" he went on, after a pause. ‘‘You are a judge, 
then. What do you think of the Baroness's work ? ” 

“ I suppose it is like,” said Elizabeth, hesitating ; “ I 
recognized the likeness. But it is not really like him. 
He looks different now ; at least, he is older, and he has 
been ill ; and then he has a — a much finer face. I think 
he has a very fine face. That face is not fine. It looks — 
it looks mean. Oh, it is not a good likeness.” 

Her companion contemplated the bust in silence for a 

moment. “ The likeness ” he began, and checked 

himself. “ The Baroness is a very good artist, I suspect,” 
he said, with some apparent inconsequence; “but that 
was done some years ago. Faces have a trick of chang- 
ing ; I wonder you should have recognized it at all ; he 
must certainly have changed greatly since then. Shall 
we go back again now ? 1 should think dinner must be 

ready by this time.” 

He closed the door of the little house behind him, and 
they traversed the garden in silence. Elisabeth’s thoughts 
were absorbed by her discovery. Once or twice she 
opened her lips as if to speak ; but the words were appar- 
ently not ready, for she relapsed again into silence. All 
at once she stood still, facing her companion on the lowest 
of the three steps that led up to the terrace. 

“ How is Mr. Holland Madame von Waldorf’s half- 
brother ?” she inquired ; “they arc not at all alike. He 
is much older.” 

“ No, tliey are not at all alike,” said Gordon, a little 
dryly. “ Captain Holland, Madame von Waldorf’s father 
and my uncle, was twice married. His first wife, Robert 
Holland’s mother, was English ; his second, as I dare say 
you know, was German. Robert is about eight years 
older than my cousin Emilia.” 

“It is so strange ” began Elisabeth. “ It is strange, 

I mean, that I should first have met Mr. Holland on board 
the boat, and then Madame von Waldorf here — I never 
knew anything so strange.’’ 

“ Ah, yes, that is how it is,” said her companion ; “ the 
world is at once so large and so small, you see, that strange 
things of that sort are always happening. People are 
always knocking their heads together in unexpected ways, 
or else they drift apart and never meet for years. Robert 
was in Vienna some ten or eleven years ago, but since 
then we have hardly seen him — Madame von Waldorf 
not at all.” 


102 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


They were slowly mounting the steps of the terrace, 
and Elisabeth did not at once answer. “ Madame von 

Waldorf you must all be glad, then,'’ she said in a 

moment, however, “that he is* coming to Schlossberg 
this winter. You will see more of him.” 

Gordon rubbed his hair off his forehead. “Yes, yes,” 
he said ; “we may perhaps see more of him. Madame von 
Leuwine has come back, I see. Miss Verrinder ; there 
she is, talking to my cousin Emilia. Let us go in and 
make the most of having been kept waiting for dinner.” 

They passed through the long open window into the 
salon. The Baroness, in an old-fashioned brown shawl, 
and with her bonnet in her hand, was seated with her 
back to them, addressing Madame von Waldorf with some 
energy. 

“ People have no sense — none at all,” she was saying. 
“ Five of the girls happen to have red petticoats instead 
of blue. ‘Dear Frau Meyer,’ I say, ‘what does it matter 
if they have canary-colored petticoats ? Do leave the poor 
children in peace.’ ‘ It was your own rule, Baroness,’ she 
says, very much in a huff ; ‘rules are rules, I always say.’ 
‘ Good heavens ! Frau Meyer,’ I answer, ‘a petticoat is not 
a moral precept. I say, let there be uniformity in dress, 
and then there can be no jealousies and heart-burnings ; 
and blue is a good serviceable color for a petticoat. But 
the girls don’t walk about in their petticoats, and I dare 
say some of them wear their mothers’ old ones.’ Then 
Lina comes in. ‘Tell me, Lina,’ I say, ‘isn’t that your 
mother’s old petticoat ?’ Upon which she begins to laugh. 
‘Yes, gracious,’ she says, ‘it is two years old ; my mother 
cut it short for me last vacation.’ ‘You see,’ I say, turn- 
ing to Frau Meyer. But I don’t believe she did see. 
People have no sense.” 

“ No ; you and I monopolize it, Aunt Irma,” said 
Emilia, smiling, and rising to greet Elisabeth. “ I must 
apologize,” she said to the yo^ung girl, “but I was detained 
at the last moment. Gordon has been entertaining you, 1 
hope. Let me take your hat and cloak ; dinner will be 
ready immediately.” 

“ Heavens ! ” cried out the Baroness, turning round ; “ I 
had entirely forgotten about dinner and about the theatre. 
Happily, one has no need to dress — not at my age, at 
any rate. Here is someone who has made herself charm- 
ing — charming for her fifst opera,” giving Elisabeth a 
kiss on her forehead, and la friendly tap under the chin. 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


103 


“ So, SO,” she said, approvingly ; a pretty frock, and very 
becoming — no, never mind your hair, my dear ; it does 
perfectly well ; and where did you get this necklace, my 
dear child ? It is exceedingly handsome ; I never saw a 
liandsomer one of the kind. What is this engraved on it ? 
You don’t know ? Here, Gordon, look at Miss Verrinder’s 
turquoises, and tell us what the inscription is.” 

She unfastened the necklace and laid it in the young 
man’s hand. He took it to the window, and studied it for 
a moment, then returned it to Elisabeth with a smile. 

“I don’t know,” he said, ^‘what crime Miss Verrinder 
has been committing, but the inscription, which is in 
Persian, means, freely translated : ‘ I will atone.’ ’’ 

“Ah, well!” said the Baroness, “that is no matter; we 
most of us have something to atone for, if we only live 
long enough. Put it on again, my dear, and be careful 
not to lose it ; it is worth taking care of, I assure you. 
Emilia, I beg of you to go in to dinner. I shall be ready 
in a minute, but don’t wait for me, or we may miss the 
overture. I would on no account have Elisabeth miss the 
overture to her first opera.” 

They walked to the theatre, arriving in good time for 
the overture, as it turned out ; and the performance ending 
early, in the primitive Schlossberg fashion (to the end of 
her life Elisabeth would remember that the opera had 
been “ Der Freischiitz ”), they walked home at its conclu- 
sion. Gordon accompanied the Baroness and his cousin ; 
and after leaving Elisabeth at the Pension Werner, the 
three walked on through the quiet streets to Madame von 
Waldorf’s house. Emilia asked her cousin to come in ; 
bur he declined. 

“ I must get home,” he said, “ and see what’s going on 
there. I declare to you, Emilia, that woman shows herself 
a greater fool every day. I never go home without won- 
dering what mayn’t have happened in my absence. It 
would never surprise me to find the house burned down.” 

“ But, my dear Gordon, we must find you someone 
else,” said Emilia ; “ we spoke of that before, you 
know.” 

“No, no; what’s the good ? My father doesn’t dislike 
this one, and if we get another she might be just as bad, 
or worse. This one cooks pretty well, you know. But it’s 
an execrable way of living ; I wonder sometimes what the 
end of it will be.” He thrust his hands into his pockets, 
and stared before him for a minute, then broke into a 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


I04 

laugh. “ The end will be that I shall turn into a con- 
founded old housekeeper,” he said, “ or else hang myself. 
Anyhow, I ought to be at home now, and I believe I shall 
give up going out in the evening altogether.” 

He nodded, and walked off at a rapid pace, but with a 
heavier lieart than he often carried with him about the 
world. Gordon Temple had not in the least the habit of 
a heavy heart ; lie was in some respects young for his age ; 
he had a fresh power of enjoyment, that is, that some men 
never have at all, that most men find a little blurred and 
dimmed by their thirtieth year. Gordon had knocked 
about the world as much as most men ; but he had a happy 
trick of finding life extremely interesting, apart from his 
own personal concern in it, that contributes more, perhaps, 
to a man’s final enjoyment than any other quality what- 
ever. At present, however, life was simply becoming to him 
a horrible perplexity. He had a letter at that moment in 
his pocket, of which he had not spoken to his cousin, al- 
though he consulted her sympathy on most occasions. He 
had put it into his pocket, indeed, with the idea of show- 
ing it to her, and then decided it was useless. It was use- 
less, he said to himself, to renew an old discussion ; he 
had liis own opinion of what he ought to do. The letter 
was from the Philological Society, that had already offered 
him an appointment in the East. He had-refused, and the 
appointment had been given to another man ; but a sud- 
den illness having obliged this one to throw it up, a second 
letter had been addressed to Gordon, urging him to recon- 
sider his decision and accept the offered post. The young 
man would have given a year of his life to do it ; nothing 
could have suited him better, his tastes, his capacity, his 
pleasure. Finally, at the end of everything, he had an 
enthusiasm for his work that was the strongest passion of 
liis life. He was a man of imagination, as tlie Baroness 
had said ; and the study of the science of language, after 
the modern methods, with its long light thrown down the 
vista of the ages on to remotest darkness, on to the origins 
of religions and philosophies and thought, seemed to him 
more suggestive, appealed to and satisfied the imaginativ^e 
side of his nature more than anything else in the world. He 
had received the letter twenty-four hours before, and he had 
not answered it yet. He was going to write another refusal, 
he said to himself ; and the moment he said so, a conflict 
arose to postpone the final decision. He hated — he hated 
the thouglit of giving up the duty he had taken upon him- 


THE EAILVkE OE ELISAERTH, 


idS 

self of looking after his father in their altered circum- 
stances ; he had no business, lie protested, to throw tlie 
responsibility on anyone else. At the same time, he was 
compelled to own that his experiment so far had been 
something of a failure ; that his father — each week that 
passed confirmed the supposition — might be better cared 
for and happier in his cousin’s house than in his own. 
They were, other things set aside, not dependent on each 
other for companionship ; they had lived too much apart 
for that; he had no misgivings on tliat score. Neverthe- 
less, they had a particular friendship with, and affection 
for, one another ; and, after all, he declared, who should 
look after his fatlier but himself ? He had argued the 
point with his cousin Emilia fifty times ; he was not going 
to give it up now. Gordon was really an excellent fellow ; 
he had a kind heart, a first-rate brain ; but he was a trifle 
wrong-headed now and then — obstinate, as Madame von 
Waldorf had said ; though, no doubt, from his own point 
of view, his obstinacy in this direction might very well wear 
the aspect of a virtue. 

He clung to his obstinacy, at any rate. He wouldn’t go 
away, he said to himself. He would go on giving lectures 
— he liked giving lectures — at Schlossberg for two- pence 
a month ; that was the compendious fashion in which he 
summarized the salary paid him for his services by the 
authorities of Schlossberg. As for his present difficulty 
with the servant, when she had reached her lowest depth 
of stupidity, he would send her away, and find another 
stupider still. A variety of stupidity seemed all that it was 
possible to command, at the salary he was able to offer. 
Having arrived at this decision, he walked on quicker than 
before, through the respectable burgher quarters of the 
city, already settling down to their night’s repose, across a 
bridge to a quiet old-fashioned street on the other side of 
the river that divided the town. A single lamp illumi- 
nated the street at one end ; one or two lights shone from 
upper windows. Gordon turned a latch-key in a door 
about half-way down, and striking a match, lighted him- 
self up a dark winding staircase to a second story. Here 
another door barred his way. He admitted himself by a 
second key, and passing through an anteroom, through a 
dining-room with a stove, a glass cupboard, a round table 
in the middle, and half a dozen chairs, he entered a toler- 
ably spacious apartment, furnished as a library. The room 
— it had been arranged by Madame von Waldorf — had an 


io6 THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 

air of comfort beyond what might have been expected 
from the meagreness of the adjoining apartments. There 
were rugs on the floor ; red curtains hung before the 
windows ; the walls w'ere lined with books ; in the centre 
was a long table strewn with papers and pamphlets, with 
writing materials and a lamp. Beside the lamp, in an 
armchair set between the table and the white china stove, 
sat an old man wrapped in a long fur coat. He was nearly 
eighty, but his white hair was still thick, the glance of his 
gray-blue eye clear and intelligent. He bore an odd like- 
ness to his son in his rather wide, blunt-featured face, but 
his expression, though shrewd, was simpler and more tran- 
quil — the shrewdness of a man who has known the world, 
the simplicity that grows with age in those rare and select 
natures that have a fund of native simplicity to start with. 
An open book was on the table beside him ; he had been 
reading, but he took off his glasses and looked up as the 
door opened and his son came in. 

“ Well, dad,” he said, going up to the old man briskly 
enough, “how have you been getting on ? ” He looked 
round as he spoke, with an eye alert, in his present mood, 
to discover what might have gone amiss in his absence. 
He detected it in a flash, as his glance fell on his father’s 
fur coat. “Whatever are you wearing that thing for?” 
he said. “You’re not cold, are you ? Why, there’s no fire, 
apparently ; there’s no heat at all in the stove.” 

“Well, the fact is, Gordon,” said his father, with a sort 
of humorous shame-facedness, “ I let the fire out ; and as 
the girl was gone to bed and my fur coat was handy, I put 
it on.” 

“ Oh, Lord ! ” said the young man, with a groan, “ I knew 
something would go wrong while I was away. Gone to 
bed ? Why, what time does she go to bed ? That’s what 
I tell Emilia ; that woman’s always asleep. I’ve the great- 
est mind to ring her up.” 

“Nonsense,” said his father; “do no such thing, Gor- 
don. What does it matter ? I shall be going to bed my- 
self before long.” 

“ Matter ! It matters everything in the world,” said his 
son, opening the little door of the stove and stirring the 
white ashes, “ if you’re cold. You are cold, aren’t you ? ” 

“ A little — nothing to signify. It’s a cold night, isn’t it ? 
That’s what it is ; I’m chilly, I suppose.” 

“ It’s not a particularly cold night, but if you’re chilly, 
in heaven’s name let us have a fire. We’re not paupers, 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


107 


that we should sit here in this squalid fashion. There’s 
no particular difficulty in lighting a fire.” 

He left the room, and returning with the requisite ma- 
terials, lighted up the stove in a minute. The old man 
sat leaning forw^ard, holding up his delicate wffiite hands to 
the flame that blazed up at the little square opening. 

‘‘Well, wdiat’s the new^s, Gordon ?” he said at last, as 
his son did not speak. “ How did the opera go off ? ” 

“ It’s absurd ; the thing is intolerable ! ” said Gordon, 
without noticing the question, and giving a log a kick 
with the heel of his boot. “ If that woman can’t do her 
work properly she must go. I shall speak to Emilia about 
it again to-morrow.” 

“ No, no,” said his father. I won’t have her sent away. 
She’s a good soul enough ; I like her, I tell you. I won’t 
have her sent away because I let out the fire.” 

“Well ” said Gordon, leaning back in his chair 

and thrusting his hands into his pockets. “ Oh, the opera I ” 
he said. “Yes, it was w^ell enough. I often wonder how 
they get up those things so well in a place like this.” 

“ They liave a good tradition in these small German 
cities, that’s how it is. They have a good many excellent 
traditions. I suppose they’ll lose them by degrees, as 
Germany gets more centralized. Well,” he w^ent on, “and 
who did you see at your cousin’s ? The Baroness doesn’t 
leave yet, does she ? ” 

“No, no ; not for anotlier six w'eeks. Let me see,” said 
the young man, rousing himself. “ I saw no one but 
Emilia and the Baroness, and a Miss Verrinder — a rather 
pretty little girl the Baroness has taken up. You know 
how she goes about the w’orld with a train of girls. I tell 
her she is a second St. Ursula; she has room for at least 
eleven thousand under the mantle of her capacious bene- 
volence.” 

“Ah, she is a good woman,” said his father. “I never 
knew a better, and I’ve known her for a good many years 
now. She was just the same as a girl. But for that matter, 
men and women never change ; one finds that out as one 
grows old. Well, and what news did you hear ? ” he said 
again, with an infirm old man’s craving for intelligence 
from the outer world. “What is going on ? ” 

“ I don’t believe I heard any news at all,” said his son, 
considering. “Yes, Robert Holland is to be here in a 
week or two. But that’s not much in the way of news.” 

“Well, no,” said the old man; “considering that he’s 


io8 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


my nephew, or, at any rate, your mother’s nephew, we 
couldn’t well see less of a man liian we do of him. He 
doesn’t like us, I take it ; and I’ve a notion, Gordon, you 
don’t particularly like him.” 

‘‘ No, I don’t,” said Gordon, briefly. He turned round 
to the table, and pulling some writing materials toward 
liim, began making notes fora lecture. His father watched 
him awhile in silence ; then taking up his own book, be- 
gan to read again. Presently Gordon threw down his pen, 
and flung himself round in his chair. 

‘‘It is intolerable — intolerable,” he said, “that I can’t 
go out without coming home to find you shivering with 
cold.” 

“Oh, nonsense, nonsense!” said his fatlier. “You 
make me ashamed of you, Gordon, that you worry about 
such trifles. It’s not the first time in my life I’ve sat with- 
out a fire. You’ll make me think myself the most exact- 
ing old fellow.” 

He shut up his book, looked at his watch, and laying 
his hand on the stick that leaned against the arm of his 
chair, prepared to rise. He glanced again at his son as 
Gordon sat with his legs stretched out, staring into the 
fire. 

“ Do you know what I wish, Gordon ?” lie said. 

“What, father?” 

“ I Avish you would accept that travelling appointment 
that was offered you. It’s still open, isn’t it ?” 

“ It’s still open, because the man who accepted it re- 
signed it again by the doctor’s orders. They’d have me, 
no doubt, if I said I’d go.” 

“ Then I wish you would say you’d go. You’re wast- 
ing yourself here, that’s the truth. And you’re at the best 
years of your life, that shouldn’t be wasted. Take my ad- 
vice, and go.” 

He raised himself stiffly as he spoke, and stood leaning 
on his stick. He was a tall old man, taller than his son, 
who came to his side to help him to his room. 

“ Leave the lamp, please,” he said, as the elder man 
prepared to turn it down ; “ I am coming back to work.” 

“Ah, that’s a bad habit of yours, Gordon,” said his fa- 
ther; “sitting up to work till all hours of the night and 
morning. It wears out eyes and brain both. I never did 
it, and I’ve read as many books in my time as most people. 
You don’t sit up and worry now ?” he said, standing still, 
looking at his son. 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 109 

Bless you, no,” said Gordon, with a laugli, laying his 
hand on the old man’s shoulder. “ Why, I don’t worry half 
so much as you worry yourself about me.” 

When Gordon returned to the sitting-room, before set- 
ting to work again, he wrote a letter to his cousin Emilia. 

“ When I came in this evening,” the letter ran, “ I found 
the fire out, the maid in bed, and my father sitting in the 
cold. This sort of thing seems to me so abject, squalid, 
and intolerable, that I do not see how it is to be borne any 
longer. My father ought to have a personal attendant ; 
I could hardly tell you how preposterous it sometimes 
seems to me, that he of all men should not have one ; and to 
look after him properly myself is apparently beyond my 
power. Even if I were to give up everything else, so as to 
be always within his call, it would not be good for him. 
All that remains to him of active life comes to him in cur- 
rents from the outer world ; and, so far, I have more or 
less kept him in touch with what is going on. But I can- 
not be with him constantly, and yet come in with the 
freshness of new ideas and other lives. And to see me in 
any way fettered by his demands would make him miser- 
able. I know my father well ; and though it is not the 
common opinion, it is a fact that there are a few people 
with whose unselfishness one has to reckon, as one involun- 
tarily reckons with the selfishness of the world at large. 
My father is one of the few ; it is a positive fact that to 
add to the sum of his happiness I have to consider my 
own advantage. 

‘‘All this, however, is not new to you ; we have discussed 
It, or something like it, a dozen times, I dare say. It 
is only a preface to my saying that, in regard to the many 
kind offers of assistance you have made me, I have been 
reconsidering the reasons that made me refuse the kind- 
est of all. To be brief : the appointment to tlie East is 
still, I find, open. Will you, if I accept it, allow my father, 
during my absence, to reside in your house? No trouble 
that I can possibly prevent shall accrue to you ; that I can 
promise. The pay offered by the society is so liberal that, 
together with the rent of this apartment, which I shall, I 
believe, have no difficulty in letting, I can at once secure 
an attendant for my father who will relieve me to a certain 
extent of anxietv. The rest of the pecuniary arrange- 
ments we can settle later on ; and I may as well say at 
once that, unless I am allowed to settle them after my own 


i 


no 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


fashion, the whole thing will fall to the ground. The 
only thing I shall ask of you — besides everything else — is 
to supply the element of variety, of freshness in my fa- 
ther’s life that is essential above everything else to a man 
of his age, cut off as he is from his former life and friends. 
You will be able to do it better than I can, for there is 
more movement and society in your house. He is fond, 
too, of Ida ; I think he will be happy with you. It is a 
miserable business altogether. God knows whether I am 
deciding for the best. One can only do what one can. 

‘H shall not be leaving Schlossberg for another two 
months, certainly ; and till then, or nearly till then, my 
father and I can be together. That will also doubtless 
suit you, as the Baroness does not, I believe, return to 
Vienna for another six weeks. I have no fear of any 
difficulty on my father’s part. He wishes me — he has 
told me so — to accept this appointment ; but he knows 
how impossible it would be for me to go now, and to 
leave him here alone ; that I wouldn’t even if I could. 
He will do anything he can to facilitate my arrangements, 
and there is no one, as you know, he would so willingly 
be with as with you. That it shall be no absolute incon- 
venience to you, I believe I might pledge myself ; that 
it will entail on you a certain anxiety and responsibility 
is inevitable ; but one of our queer ways in this queer 
world is to prove our friendship for, and reliance on, our 
friends by settling some of our burthens on their shoulders. 
I can only assure you I am now, as always. 

Your eternallv obliged 

‘‘ G. T.” 

‘‘ That,” said Madame von Waldorf, passing the letter to 
the Baroness, “is quite the most sensible thing that Gor- 
don can do. I am rejoiced. But how he bullies one ! ” 
she added, smiling. 

“ Poor boy ! ” said the Baroness, reading the letter ; “ he 
is miserable ; he is torn one way and another ; he doesn’t 
know what he writes. He would like to be a daughter to 
his father, and he has not an idea how to set about it ; 
how should he have ? Certainly it is the wisest thing he 
can do, now that he has come to see it for himself.” 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


III 


CHAPTER XV. 

HOW ONE DREAMS AT SEVENTEEN. 

It might be held a question for nice decision whether 
the habit — more properly perhaps to be called the instinct, 
or let us say, the gift — of living by the imagination con- 
fers more pain or felicity on its possessor ; whether those 
hours of fancy that precede an event, when everything, 
down to the smallest detail — the turn of a hand, the glance 
of an eye, the inflexion of a voice — is prefigured by the 
dreamer to suit his own idiosyncrasy, compensate for the 
dismal loss of the dream, when the event comes to pass 
and the reality is found to arrange itself by no means to 
meet this or that idiosyncrasy, but after certain inex- 
orable laws that for the most part are left out of the 
dreamer’s calculations altogether. Elisabeth, for exam- 
ple, to descend from the general to the particular, who 
had the habit of arranging events beforehand with a 
mise en scene and a dramatic sequence that insured lier fig- 
uring to a more or less heroic strain, was too apt in these 
inspired moments to forget what, in more sober hours, 
pressed upon her heavily enough ; that so far, at any rate, 
she, a shy and speechless girl (though conscious of sev- 
eral remarkable qualities, if other people could only have 
been brought to divine them), cut no very heroic figure in 
life — might cross the stage, indeed, twenty times, and yet 
raise no great thrill in the spectator. It might, I repeat, 
be a question difficult to decide whether this trick of im- 
agination, always a strong factor in the young girl’s life, 
brought her finally to more pleasure or distress. It was 
an imagination that made no very large exactions on life ; 
it considered no splendid possibilities ; nay, much that is 
offered and accepted as mere daily fare in some lives, pre- 
sented itself to Elisabeth as the far-off unattainable nectar 
of the gods. More than one illusion, indeed, had been 
deadened in her already ; from such experience as she had 
had, she had learned not greatly to expect. But expecta- 
tion is one thing, imagination altogether another ; and so 
much, besides, still lay outside the range of Elisabeth’s 
experience ! Given a hitherto untried event to look for- 
ward to, and our heroine was as ready to construct and 


1 12 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


to decorate as if she had never been deceived or undeceived 
in all the seventeen years of her life. 

This brief digression may help to explain how, in the 
week or so following the arrival of Mr. Holland’s letter, 
that vexed question of the hundred-mark note began to 
fade out of Elisabeth’s mind, while Mr. Holland’s expected 
arrival took on itself daily a more and more glowing im- 
portance. The question, indeed, returned to her again and 
again with some force for a day or two ; it obtruded itself 
in the midst of a lecture ; it crossed the pages of more 
than one book. But, after all, she saw no means whatever 
of getting the money — her imagination drew a perfect 
blank in that direction — the matter must be left to chance. 
Perhaps some miraculous interposition might yet take 
place ; and at the worst — at the worst, Mr. Holland was so 
good, he would surely not mind waiting a little longer ; 
she would explain how it had all happened ; he would cer- 
tainly understand. This happy conviction was the drowsy 
poppy pillow on which Elisabeth finally lulled her mind 
to rest. The question, I say, slipped from its first urgency ; 
its place became occupied by dreams of her approaching 
meeting with Mr. Holland. The occasion seemed extraor- 
dinarily momentous to Elisabeth. Ever since she had 
seen him on board the Rhine boat, the clergyman had oc- 
cupied a large part of her thoughts, though in the content 
of her first weeks at the Pension Werner he had fallen a 
little into the background. But now something better 
than content lay before her — the agitation, the unrest that 
beset every vivid interest roused in man toward fellow- 
man. Elisabeth was young enough to count such unrest 
the highest joy in life ; and in her heart was the convic- 
tion that something of it lay in Mr. Holland’s thought of 
her. She wascertain he would think a great deal of meet- 
ing her again. And he was the brother of Madame von 
Waldorf. 

This simple coincidence had filled Elisabeth with won- 
der. What a strange world in which such things could 
happen ! And with an opportuneness not less strange 
than the coincidence ; since in Madame von Waldorf’s 
house she would certainly have occasions for meeting Mr. 
Holland that could hardly otherwise occur. Where that 
meeting would first take place occupied her mind ex- 
tremely ; it offered the largest field to her imagination, 
the largest margin to uncertainties ; not a house or a street 
in Schlossberg but she might set up as a background if 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 113 

she pleased. She did not even know what roof in Schloss- 
berg would have the honor of sheltering him. Any roof, 
Elisabeth thought, would be lionored by such sheltering 
office ; she herself was not far from longing to build him 
a little prophet’s chamber, in which to minister to his 
daily needs. It was a point on which Mr. Sparrow might, 
perhaps, have enliglitened her, since it was he, apparently, 
who was responsible for the housing of his friend ; but 
Elisabeth did not like Mr. Sparrow well enough to ques- 
tion him. She did not, indeed, care to question anyone 
on the subject, and might have gone on in ignorance un- 
til the very day of Mr. Holland’s arrival, but for a chance 
remark from Mary Sparrow, who appeared as before in 
Elisabeth’s room one evening before tea, with a fresh lit- 
tle pile of books. 

Oh, Elisabeth, did you know,” slie said, “ Mrs. Gen- 
eral Cleaver is going away to-morrow ? ” 

“ Is she ? ” said Elisabeth, not greatly interested. 

‘‘Yes,” said Miss Sparrow ; “she told Frau Werner she 
could not stand papa and mamma any longer. Fancy, 
Elisabeth, her saying such a tiling of papa and mamma ! 
But mamma told papa she was very pleased, for it showed 
how much impression she had made by what she had said. 
Mamma says it takes so much to make any impression on 
a person like Mrs. Cleaver. So now, as slie is going, Mr. 
Holland can have her room, and so, papa says, we shall be 
quite sure not to have the same sort of person again.” 

“ Mr. Holland ! ” said Elisabeth. 

“Yes, papa’s friend, you know — the Vicar of Thornton 
Briars. Mamma did not very much care for him to come ; 
she told papa she doesn’t believe he preaches pure Gospel 
truth. But papa said that didn’t matter, as he would not be 
preaching sermons here, and he wouldn’t need to lend liim 
his pulpit more than once ; and it wouldn’t be a bad thing, 
papa said, for the house to have two clergymen in it. Of 
course, mamma told papa she wouldn’t have him interfere 
in any way, as we are the chaplain ; so I dare say it won’t 
signify. Mamma has sent you some more of these little 
books, Elisabeth. She told papa she very much feared 
you had not read the last ; but she meant to persevere, as 
you interested her a good deal. Papa said he hadn’t 
noticed you much.” 

“ Oh,” said Elisabeth, impatiently, “ I wish you wouldn’t 
repeat everything your papa and mamma say, Mary ; it is 
so silly of you. When is Mr. Holland coming?” 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


114 

I don’t know,” said Mary, in a huff ; “ and I’m sure I 
am not more silly than you are, Elisabeth. Mamma says 
nothing is so foolish as to think more of our bodies than 
of our souls, and I am sure you think a great deal of 
yours when you put on that fine white dress.” 

With this parting remark Miss Sparrow, having been 
stirred for once to utter an opinion of her own, left the 
room — an opinion, too, so strictly in accordance with the 
truth, that Elisabeth could not but feel a little wounded. 
But the sensation passed instantly in the immense, the ag- 
itating impression created by Mary Sparrow’s intelligence. 
The tea-bell rang, but Elisabeth paid no heed ; she stood 
careless of the reproof she would presently receive from 
Mrs. Sparrow ; she was absorbed, she was almost awe- 
struck, by her contemplation of the immediate future. 
She had never expected Mr. Holland to come here — not 
here. The house was full, she had known, for the winter 
months ; it had never occurred to her even to hope for 
such a thing. A felicity so profound went beyond her ut- 
most imagination ; it almost frightened her ; she felt un- 
worthy of it. 

She went down to tea at last, and listened to Mrs. Spar- 
row’s exhortations in a dream. She did not ask again 
when Mr. Holland was coming ; but in no case, as she 
was aware, could that epoch-making meeting now be long 
delayed. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

A MOMENTOUS MEETING. 

The meeting took place dully enough, to Elisabeth’s ap- 
prehension, only two days later. She was slowly descend- 
ing the stairs for the mid-day meal, reading (it was a habit 
she had) as she went, when she nearly ran up against the 
two clergymen, Mr. Sparrow and Mr. Holland, as they 
issued from a door at the head of the stairs on the second 
landing. Elisabeth, who had not heard of Mr. Holland’s 
arrival, stopped short, coloring with emotion. She half 
held out her hand ; then hastily drew it back, perceiving, 
to her extreme mortification, that he did not recognize 
her in the least. He had, in fact, only seen her with her 
little brown hat pulled over her eyes ; and unaware of her 
presence at the Pension Werner — he supposed her always 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


115 

to be at the Pension Elder — he altogether failed to identify 
the young girl before him with that other young girl 
lie had met on board the Rhine boat. He glanced at 
her kindly, however, as was his fashion with young 
people — she remembered that kindly glance — and the 
two men went down-stairs together. Elisabeth could 
only follow wdth a heart like lead. Here was a sorry end 
indeed to all her rapturous visions : Mr. Holland was come, 
and he did not even remember her ; she had not, appar- 
ently she had not, made even so much impression on him 
as that. 

It was no better during dinner. Mr. Holland sat re- 
moved from her range of vision on the other side of Mrs. 
Sparrow. This was that worthy woman’s own arrange- 
ment ; her husband, she considered, ought to continue to 
reign supreme on his own side of the table, and she wished 
herself to exercise a salutary influence on Mr. Holland. 
Her husband’s friendship with him, dating from the first 
years of Mr. Holland’s curacy in the North, had never 
altogether pleased her. She had felt doubtful about him 
then ; she had heard rumors since of proceedings in his 
own parish that justified these doubts to the utmost ; she 
burned to give him her opinion upon them. Her only 
chance, she had known, was to attach him to herself dur- 
ing meals. Mr. Sparrow admired, or at least tolerated, 
his wife in her public capacity ; in private life he permitted 
her to talk to him by the hour if she chose, though he 
seldom vouchsafed a more sympathetic reply than ‘‘Pooh, 
pooh, my dear,” as he read and scored his pamphlets ; 
were any of his own friends present, however, Mrs. Spar- 
row, instructed by some experiences in the past, main- 
tained a discreet and dignified silence. Elisabeth thus 
found herself divided and screened by the entire breadth 
of her good friend’s portly person from the Vicar of 
Thornton Briars. He might as well not have been there 
at all, she thought in bitterness, as she escaped before the 
close of tlie meal, as was her custom on certain days, to 
join her afternoon classes. Burning tears of disappoint- 
ment forced themselves to Elisabeth’s eyes as she hurried 
along to the lecture-room ; but they were checked by a 
fresh hope. At supper-time they must certainly meet 
ngain ; but at supper he did not appear. Then Elisabeth’s 
heart sank indeed. Could he have gone away? It was 
simply, as she subsequently discovered, that considerations 
of health had led him to arrange his meals at hours some- 


ir6 THE FAILURE OF EL/SABETH. 

what different from those followed in the pension ; he never 
came down to supper. But Elisabeth’s heart sank again 
like a stone. A vista of empty days stretched before her. 
The poor child had liung them so richly in anticipation, 
that the finest tapestries of life would have seemed some- 
what meagre by comparison ; and fate, it appeared to her, 
was about to furnish no tapestries at all — nothing but the 
dreariest whitewashed blank. The ascetic evening meal 
became to her bitter as a hermit’s roots. 

Much as she disliked the salon, a forlorn hope led her 
thither, almost before supper was ended. It stood empty, 
awaiting the influx of guests from the dining-room. Elisa- 
beth, who had provided herself with a book, sat down in 
a corner, as far as possible from the central table, where 
Mrs. Sparrow had the habit of establishing herself with 
Mary. The blouses were finished ; but there was always 
other work on hand ; and Elisabeth did not want to be 
caught this evening, and made to listen to reading she did 
not care about. She sat with her eyes fixed on her book ; 
and presently the story — Elisabeth loved few things better 
than a story — began to hold her attention, and transport 
her miles from Schlossberg. She was half involved in its 
intricacies, half conscious of what was going on round 
her, when, happening to look up as she turned a leaf, she 
saw Mr. Holland standing at the centre table, talking to 
Mrs. Sparrow. He glanced toward Elisabeth, looked at 
her for a moment, then addressed himself to Mrs. Spar- 
row once more. Elisabeth’s heart began to beat ; she for- 
got her story ; the book closed on her hand. Had he 
recognized her at last ? The next moment the question 
was answered ; he crossed the room with his slow, shuffling 
invalid step, and standing before her, held out his hand. 

“You must forgive me,” he said, in the friendly voice 
of which Elisabeth remembered every intonation, “ for 
not recognizing you before, but T didn’t know you were 
here. I fancied you were at the Pension Elder.” 

Elisabeth stammered out her oft-repeated story of Miss 
Elder’s death. 

“Yes, yes,” said the clergyman, letting himself slowly 
sink into an arm-chair at her side; “Mrs. Sparrow has 
been telling me about it. By the by, I have to thank you, 
my dear young lady, for the trouble you kindly took in 
forwarding my note to Mr. Sparrow.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Elisabeth, awkwardly, “ it was no trouble at 
all. We were all at supper ; I only gave it to him.” 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 117 

“ Still, I am mucli obliged to you.” He let his eyes 
wander rather vaguely round the room. “And how do 
you like being here?” he said. “Comfortable, eh? It 
seems a nice enough sort of place — prices moderate, and 
so on.” 

“Oh, I like it very much,” said Elisabeth, with enthu- 
siasm ; “ I was never so happy in my life.” 

“ Why, that is excellent,” said the clergyman, smiling at 
her. “You are not disappointed with your life abroad, 
then ? You were very pleased to come, I think you told 
me.” 

“Oh, no,” said Elisabeth, “I’m not disappointed. And 
I don’t think I should have liked the Pension Elder so 
much as this.” A pause ; Elisabeth twisted her fingers. 
“I hope — I hope you are better,” she said then, timidly. 
“ I hope the waters did you good.” 

“Well, we must hope so — we must hope so,” said Mr. 
Holland. “ It takes time, they say, for the good effects 
to make themselves felt. One must have patience, I sup- 
pose. Patience, patience,” he repeated, smoothing down 
his grizzled beard ; “ that, after all, is the first and last 
thing in life. You see, I didn’t enjoy coming abroad quite 
so much as you did,” he added, smiling at Elisabeth. 

“Oh! didn’t you?” she answered, leaning forward a 
little in extreme interest. 

“Well, no, I didn’t. It’s a hard thing — a hard thing, 
my dear, to break down in the midst of one’s life’s work, 
and have to give up everything at once. That is what 
happened to me. Why, I was as strong a man, I believe, 
as could have been found in my parish ; there was nothing 
I couldn’t do in the way of walking and riding; and one 
day I broke down quite suddenly without warning, and 
had to throw up everything. It is very hard to have to 
leave all one’s occupations and interests — and to leave 
them in other hands, too,” he concluded. 

“It’s dreadful — oh, I am very sorry!” said Elisabeth, 
with dilating eyes. “I do hope you will soon get well 
again.” 

“ Well, well, one must have patience ; and all these mat- 
ters are in God’s hands, you know,” said the clergyman. 
His eyes wandered round the room agaip. “Who is that 
young lady in blue over there?” he inquired. “ She is 
rather pretty.” 

• The question was something of a shock to Elisabeth. 
Her feelings had been wound up to the highest point by 


IIS 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


Mr. Holland's confidences ; but the young lady in blue fell 
upon her exaltation with the effect of a cold-water douche. 
“ I — I don't know,” she said. “ I think she has come in 
for the evening only ; she’s not staying in the house.” 

‘‘Ah — well, there seem to be some pleasant people here,” 
said Mr. Holland. “ I fancy, after all, one may pass a few 
months here agreeably enough.” He placed his hands on 
the arms of his chair, preparatory to rising. “ By the by,” 
he said to Elisabeth, “ you haven’t told me how you made 
out the rest of your journey after we parted. No more 
misadventures, eh ? ” 

Elisabeth crimsoned. This was the moment she had 
dreaded ; now she would have to tell Mr. Holland she had 
not got his money yet. Of course, he was expecting her 
to take her purse out of her pocket and pay him on the 
spot. What would he think of her if she did not ? In the 
meantime, whatever he might think of her, she must 
answer his question. 

“No, thank you, I had no more misadventures. I got 
here quite safely,” she said ; “only Miss Elder having died 
put me out a little. I had to go to an hotel.” 

“Ah, you had to go to an hotel?” he said, rather ab- 
sently ; Mr. Sparrow was approaching them from the other 
end of the room. 

“Yes,” said Elisabeth. “That is how I came to spend 
all the money you lent me,” she would have liked to add, 
but a sudden sense of shame overcame her. All at once, 
put in that way, it seemed a dreadful thing to have done. 
“ But Baroness von Leuwine was very kind to me,” she 
went on, precipitately, “and Madame von Waldorf.” 

“Madame von Waldorf, eh? My half-sister, do you 
mean ?” said Mr. Holland. 

“Yes,” said Elisabeth, shyly. “I know now she is your 
sister; I didn’t know then.” 

“Well, we hardly know one another,” said Mr. Holland ; 
“ we have not met for years. Good-night, my dear, I must 
go now ; but you and I must have a little talk together, 
and settle our affairs, eh ? Not a very long business, for- 
tunately.” 

He went off with the English chaplain, and Elisabeth 
felt reprieved. But what, after all, is a reprieve ? If not 
to-day, to-morrow, next day ; there hangs the axe, there 
hovers the blow ready to fall. What would Mr. Holland 
think of her? Elisabeth had said to herself beforehand 
he was so kind, that it would not matter about the money ; 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 119 

but now, though she thought him kinder than ever, though 
she was palpitating with the honor conferred on her by 
liis conversation and his confidence, she somehow felt it 
did matter. She Iiad the most intense desire for his ap- 
probation ; nothing, she had all at once discovered, mat- 
tered to her quite so much as that. And yet, what would 
he think when he knew ? That was her last thought at 
night ; it claimed her very first waking moments in the 
morning. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

HOW ONE ACTS AT SEVENTEEN. 

It is to be presumed that Elisabeth’s doubt as to what 
Mr. Holland might think of her grew with the succeeding 
days ; otherwise she might probably have seized an earlier 
opportunity to ascertain his opinion than she actually did. 
On the other hand, an interview was easily evaded. She 
had only to shun the salon ; there was little chance of her 
encountering Mr. Holland elsewhere ; and occupied as 
she was all day, and often through the evening, with her 
studies, to shun the salon was not difficult. For four days 
she pursued this course. Some hope still remained in her 
mind that the improbable might happen to solve her diffi- 
culty ; and when a letter was handed to her from home, it 
would not have surprised her in the least to find that her 
uncle, k propos to nothing, had forwarded her a ten-pound 
note with his blessing. The letter, as a fact, contained 
nothing but one of her aunt’s meagre and admonitory 
epistles. It was, perhaps, the disappointment consequent 
on this that made her realize all at once that the situation 
was unbearable — that she could not bear it a day longer. 
She must tell Mr. Holland that she could not pay him 
back his money yet, let him think of her what he would. 
It was late at night that Elisabeth came to this decision, 
sitting with her elbows on the table, in the midst of her 
books and papers, and her lamp-wick sinking in its socket. 
The house had long since been quiet ; every clock in the 
city was clanging from its high tower the half-hour after 
midnight, when the girl resolved that she would make her 
confession to Mr. Holland the very next day. Elisabeth, 
in too many directions, was a sad little coward enough ; 
but if she had the cowardice of a diffident and sensitive 


120 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


nature that dreads blame as one might dread physical 
pain, she had also the courage proper to a loyal and truth- 
ful one. She was capable of making a resolution and 
keeping to it ; she would not, perhaps, have been ab- 
solutely incapable of walking to the stake in support of 
the right when once she had made up her mind what the 
right was. 

Having determined, then, to seek her opportunity, the 
opportunity was not far to find. She was aware — it was 
singular how, while diligently shunning Mr. Holland, she 
had gained no small intimacy with his habits — that the 
clergyman was to be found every day in the salon between 
five and six, reading the newspaper before his early sup- 
per. The salon was generally empty at that hour, and 
Elisabeth, who returned about that time from her classes, 
had occasionally taken advantage of the fact to examine at 
her leisure the collection of books stored in the glass book- 
case for the benefit of Frau Werner’s guests. To-day, as 
she slipped by the salon windows, which looked upon the 
street, she glanced in. A single lamp stood lighted on 
one of the small tables ; the curtains were still undrawn, 
the room not yet fully illuminated. It was as she had ex- 
pected — Mr. Holland was there alone. Elisabeth, with a 
beating heart, ran up the steps to the hall-door, opened 
and closed it, deposited her books on a table in the entry, 
and with the calm of desperation passed into the salon. 
The poor child had exaggerated the situation to a degree 
that would have rendered her incapable of speech had she 
reflected one moment now on what she was going to say. 
As it was, she had set aside reflection ; she only knew 
what she meant to do. 

“ Mr. Holland,” she began, going straight up to him. 

He turned his head to see who was speaking. 

“Ah ! it is you, is it ?” he said, in his friendly tones. “I 
had been wondering what had become of you all these 
days. We were to have a little conversation together, 
were we not ? ” 

“ Mr. Holland,” said Elisabeth, somewhat reassured (Mr. 
Holland was kind — she had known he would be), “ I am 
so sorry, but I haven’t got the money yet to pay you back. 

I shall soon, I hope,” she concluded, rather tamely. 

Mr. Holland did not immediately answer. “ Why, how 
is that?” he said then. “You cannot have spent the 
whole of a hundred marks between Bingen and Schloss- 
berg?” 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


I2I 


‘‘ No,” said Elisabeth, dismayed by some change in his 
voice; ‘‘but I had to go to the hotel for a fortnight, and 1 
had no money to pay the bill ; and I thought, as you had 
lent it to me ” She came to a dead stop. 

Mr. Holland turned over a page of the newspaper be- 
fore answering. He felt the most lively annoyance. The 
money was gone, evidently ; he should never see it again. 
It was not that he was in immediate need of it ; and he 
had, as we know, secured himself against loss by borrow- 
ing it from his half-brother Otto. But lie wanted to repay 
Otto, he told himself ; and as it was Elisabeth, not he, 
who really owed the money, until she paid him he would 
have to bear the disagreeable sensation of being out of 
pocket. This singular logic quickened his natural irrita- 
tion. 

“ You took the money, you mean, to pay your hotel 
bill?” he said at last, without raising his eyes from the 
newspaper. “ Well, that wasn’t very honest, was it ? ” 

Elisabeth stood speechless. 

“ I don’t call it very honest,” he continued, glancing 
round at her for a moment, “to use money for your own 
purposes that you see no prospect of repaying. What do 
you think about it yourself?” 

“ Oh ! ” said Elisabeth ; and turning, fled from the room. 

She fled from the room, up the long flights of stairs to 
her own apartment, and entering, locked the door behind 
her. It was the hour she loved best — dark within, red 
sunset-glow without ; but she had no thought of that now. 
She dropped into a chair, and sat and shivered. A strange 
and sickening feeling had come over her, such as she had 
only known before in some horrible dream. That, then, 
was what Mr. Holland thought of her. Elisabeth shivered 
again ; she did not cry ; she was chilled to the heart. 

She sat a long time, not knowing what to do ; but at 
last she got up, struck a match, lighted her little lamp, and 
sitting down on the sofa in front of her table, began pull- 
ing her papers about ; but she laid them down again 
directly, and sat with her head sunk between her hands. 
She did not know wdiat to do ; nothing so dreadful had 
ever happened to her before ; she could not see an inch 
before her. Presently it would be supper time, but she 
couldn’t go down-stairs ; she couldn’t run the risk of meet- 
) ing Mr, Holland ; she could never meet him again, unless 
I she had the money to repay him ; that was certain. Of 
course she could not repay him ; she could no more do it 


122 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


now than she could an hour ago ; but it had not seemed so 
dreadfully wicked then. I don’t call that honest ; what 
do you think about it yourself?” — she kept hearing the 
words over and over again, and each time witli that iiorri- 
ble sickening feeling that made her shudder away, as it 
were, from herself. Elisabeth took up a pen, and dipping it 
in the ink, copied out the first sentence of a roughly-writ- 
ten theme that lay on the table ; then she dropped the pen 
and sat staring straight before her at the shadows on the 
long sloping wall of her room. What was she to do ? She 
did not know what to do. 

A thought occurred to her. Could she not run away 
and hide herself in some place as a governess, as a nur- 
sery governess, as an English nursemaid even, till she had 
earned back the money, and could pay it ? Elisabeth 
paused on this idea, which commended itself to her imagi- 
nation ; she had read in story-books of such things being 
done ; and an escape from difficulty by a flight into free- 
dom seemed of all escapes the most commendable. But 
again she was confronted by the initial difficulty — she had 
no money ; two or three stray English coins of small 
value represented her entire fortune until Christmas. No, 
there was no escape in that direction. Elisabeth jumped 
up, and began to pace up and down the room. it was 

horrible, horrible ; she had never known anything like it 
before. What was she to do ? What was she to do ? 

An immense inspiration all at once illuminated the girl’s 
tormented mind. Her turquoise necklace — why had she 
not thought of it before ? It was worth a good deal of 
money, she knew ; why should she not sell tliat, and re- 
pay Mr. Holland at once ? Certainly she could sell it, she 
even felt sure she knew where ; at a certain antiquary’s, 
whose shop she passed daily on her way to and from her 
classes, and at whose window she often paused to contem- 
plate the antique gems and curios hung up for display. 
Some of them were marked at more than a hundred marks ; 
she might get, Elisabeth thought that she certainly ought 
to have no difficulty in getting, that sum for her turquoises. 
She looked at a little Black Forest clock that ticked against 
the wall ; it was still early, she would have time to go and 
return before supper. This very evening she might get 
the money and pay it back to Mr. Holland ; he would not 
think her dishonest tlien. Elisabeth did not spend one 
minute in reflection. With hands trembling with eager- 
ness, she pulled out her drawer and thrust the case con- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


123 


taining the necklace into her pocket ; and hurrying on her 
hat and jacket again, she ran quickly down-stairs, and was 
out in the street and on her way to tlie antiquary’s shop 
before she had well realized what she was about. She 
might have been a trifle frightened otherwise, for it was 
almost dark, and she had never been out so late by her- 
self before ; she had no business to be out now, as she 
very well knew. But the consciousness only sent her 
hurrying more swiftly along the ill-paved streets. Not 
twenty voices calling her could have held her back now ; 
nor, in fact, was the expedition in itself a very formidable 
one. In barely twenty minutes Elisabeth was in her room 
again, her necklace gone, her hundred marks in her pocket. 
The antiquary — she had hardly dared to hope it — had 
made no difficulties at all. For one thing, she was Eng- 
lish ; and that, though she did not know it, had smoothed 
her way ; and then she had made no attempt to drive a bar- 
gain. She wanted a hundred marks, neither more nor 
less ; and at the first suggestion of less, had taken up her 
necklace in despair to leave the shop — a single-minded 
purpose that had stood her need in better stead than the 
wiliest turn for business. There were the hundred marks, 
at any-^rate ; and that troublesome passage in her life 
brought promptly to a close. 

Not quite to a close, however, since the money had still 
to be given to Mr. Holland. Elisabeth wanted him to 
have it that very evening, she could not rest until it was 
safely in his hands. The question was how to get it there. 
She could not go to his room ; she could not — not after 
that stormy passage — give it to him before all the people 
in the salon. She might enclose it in a note and send it 
to him by the maid ; yes, that would perhaps be the best 
way. Elisabeth took a sheet of paper, and sat down to 
write ; but was instantly arrested by a doubt as to how she 
ought to begin. She had never written to a clergyman 
before ; she had not an idea how to begin. Some cere- 
mony of title, she believed, had to be observed ; and it 
was of such vital moment — it seemed so to Elisabeth — that 
she should make no mistake that might offend Mr. Hol- 
land, and make him think worse of her than before. And 
this weighty dilemma, whicti kept her pen suspended some 
ten minutes over her paper, may fitly give the measure 
of Elisabeth’s knowledge of life and of the relative im- 
portance of its affairs. 

The supper-bell rang while she was still deliberating. 


124 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


She tore up the sheet of paper on which she had scribbled 
one or two futile beginnings, thrust the money into her 
pocket, and ran down-stairs. As she traversed the hall on 
her way to the dining-room, a new idea occurred to her. 
Frau Werner’s little room usually stood empty in the eve- 
ning, tiiat good woman preferring, after she liad seen her 
children safely into bed, to seek cheerfulness with her 
guests in the salon, rather than endure the solitude of her 
own apartment. More than once, having taken a fancy to 
the girl, she had offered the use of it to Elisabeth ; if she 
wanted to study, the kind soul said, it was more cheerful 
for her to sit there than in her bedroom at the top of the 
house. Elisabeth liked her own room best ; but, too grate- 
ful to refuse a kindness, she had occasionally accepted the 
offer. Now, she thought, she would ask Frau Werner to 
let her take her books there to-night ; the door opened 
near the foot of the staircase ; she could watch for Mr. 
Holland, and give him the money on his way from the 
salon to his own room. Then she would be at peace. 

Elisabeth’s chief concern, when her purpose was so far 
accomplished that she found herself seated with her books 
in Frau Werner’s parlor, was that Mr. Holland should not 
leave the salon, as he sometimes did, in company with Mr. 
Sparrow. Fate was propitious to her ; Mr. Holland, as it 
happened, left the salon early and alone. It was a little 
past nine o’clock when Elisabeth heard his slow, un- 
certain step coming along the hall. She started up, 
threw wide the already half-open door, and stood on the 
threshold. 

Mr. Holland,” she said, in trembling tones. 

The clergyman turned. He also had been feeling a little 
remorseful since his interview with Elisabeth ; in the an- 
noyance of the moment he had spoken more harshly than 
he could have wished. Mr. Holland had an overbearing 
and an obstinate strain in his character that accounted for 
much of his ascendancy over his flock. He was never 
afraid to reprove ; and to many people there is a very well- 
defined enjoyment in the reception of hard, downright 
knocks from a nature they feel to be stronger than their 
own. Tlie personal interest implied, the sense of a master, 
compensate for a little roughness of treatment. But Mr. 
Holland had a kindly as well as a domineering strain in 
his character ; his ascendancy would iiave been less as- 
sured but for that. He was genuinely vexed with him- 
self now for having lost his temper with Elisabeth, A 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


125 


little reflection had instructed him that, after all, he in- 
curred no great risk of loss, since the girl was provided 
with relations to wliom application in the last resort could 
be made. He had looked for her in the salon after supper 
to make it up, as the children say, with a few kind words. 
He came at once now, at tlie sound of her voice. 

‘•Mr. Holland,” said Elisabeth, “this is your money, 
please.” She was incapable of saying more. 

“ How ? I don’t understand, my dear,” said the clergy- 
man, taking the note she thrust into liis hand. “.Come in 
out of the draught,” he said, for they were standing in the 
open doorway. He drew her into tlie room, and closed 
the door behind them. “Now,” he said, “1 don’t quite 
understand. I thought you told me that you hadn’t got 
the money.” 

“I know,” said Elisabeth, hurriedly ; “but I’ve got it 
since. I wanted you to have it.” 

“ Well, that was quite right of you, my dear ; but there 
was no such immediate hurry,” said the clergyman. “ I 
could have waited a little while, my dear young lady ; 
or I could have written to your aunt.” Elisabeth’s eyes 
widened with horror ; this was a contingency that had 
never occurred to her. “Now,” Mr. Holland went on, 
“ I am afraid you may have put yourself to some incon- 
venience. You’ve not got yourself into any trouble about 
it, eh ? ” 

“ No, no, no ! ” cried Elisabeth. “ Oh, I wanted you to 
have it. I couldn’t bear you should think me — think me 
dishonest.” 

“ Wliy, nonsense, my dear, nonsense ! ” said the clergy- 
man, laying a hand kindly on the girl’s shoulder. “Who 
ever dreamed of your being dishonest ? A little careless 
and thoughtless, perhaps, but you’ll improve.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Elisabeth ; “ I’ll try to improve.” She 
dropped into the cliair from which she had risen and 
burst into a passion of tears. Mr. Holland stood by, feel- 
ing slightly uncomfortable. He had made more than one 
young parishioner weep before now ; but Elisabeth was 
not his parishioner, and this was not his vicarage parlor. 
There might be a certain awkwardness should anyone 
come into Frau Werner’s sitting-room and find Miss Ver- 
rinder seated there in floods of tears. 

“ Come, come,” he said at last, in his kind, persuasive 
tones, “ command yourself, my dear young lady. You are 
troubling yourself too much about a matter that in any 


126 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


case was of little moment, and that is altogether done 
with now. Believe me, I, for one, shall never think of it 
again.” 

He held out his hand as he spoke with a friendly smile. 
Elisabeth looked up with streaming eyes ; then, pressing 
her handkerchief to her face, clung for a moment to the 
hand held out to her, and fled from the room up-stairs. 
Mr. Holland made a movement to follow her ; but she 
had already disappeared round the first turn of the stair- 
case. He stood considering for a moment; then going 
back into the little parlor, examined the hundred-mark 
note he still held in his hand by the light of Frau Wer- 
ner’s lamp, and placed it with an air of deliberation and 
reflection in his pocketbook. Afterward, instead of pur- 
suing his way to his room, he returned with slow foot- 
steps to the salon. 

That room presented its usual evening appearance ; the 
tapestries, the whist, the subdued giggling, all going on ; 
Mr. Sparrow stretched out at full length in an armchair 
in the middle of the room, yawning immensely, ob- 
trusively, from time to time ; Mary Sparrow seated with 
her mother at the centre table, her attention nervously 
divided between her work and her scissors, which the 
divinity student at her side was vacantly engaged in spoil- 
ing by stretching them open to their utmost width, then 
closing them again with a snap. Mary would not for the 
world have interfered with this guileless pastime, which 
promised to keep the young man beside her all the even- 
ing ; but it did distress her orderly mind to have her 
scissors spoiled. Mrs. Sparrow, with her usual air of 
dignified superiority, was audibly haranguing a small lady, 
a distant cousin of her own, who had joined Frau Wer- 
ner’s establishment within the last few days. Miss Rob- 
bins had for some years been matron in a boys’ school, 
and had filled that onerous office with much distinction. 
Circumstances, however, that do not in the least concern 
this little history, having offered her a small independence, 
she had retired, amid the cheers of the boys, first to her 
native Somersetshire village, and subsequently to seek 
adventure on the great European continent. She was a 
dressy little person, and the lavender-colored barege, 
figured in black, that she wore, was one of several well- 
preserved garments that had been shaking out their 
creases and their splendors since her arrival at the Pension 
Werner. A black lace cap, adorned with a lavender bow 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 127 

and some metallic green ears of corn artfully bristling 
among the ribbons, crowned her thin bands of sandy hair. 
A guileless little woman, she had already confided to Mrs. 
Sparrow that she had never seen anything so chaste and 
beautiful as that lady’s parure in seed-pearls. Mrs. Spar- 
row, justly gratified by this candid appreciation, had at 
once taken her cousin under her protection, and was now 
instructing her ignorance in the more subtle ways and 
snares of foreign life. 

^‘Frau Werner, now,’* she said in a commanding 
voice, which might easily have carried her words to that 
good-natured woman on the other side of the room, Frau 
Werner is an excellent person — excellent ; I should be 
sorry to say a word against her. Our rooms are not every- 
thing I could have desired, but we are people of simple 
habits ; her terms are moderate, I am informed, her table 
varied and liberal ; and yet she is a foreigner, my dear, 
she is a foreigner ; she has never yet assimilated, as I 
might say, the best tastes of the best classes of English 
society. Take the little library, for instance, she provides 
for our entertainment. The first task Mr. Sparrow and I 
had to undertake on our arrival here was to weed out (we 
have had the same sort of thing to do before) and remove 
the pernicious literature it contained — enticing, no doubt, 
but all the more pernicious for that, and, alas ! the most dili- 
gently read. And yet there must have been some sincere 
Christians coming and going, who might have instructed 
Frau Werner, had she been willing to learn, in the finer 
shades of our English home-life.” 

‘‘Very, very sad,” murmured Miss Robbins, a good deal 
preoccupied. “And yet,” she went on, brightening up 
wonderfully, “ there is something very attractive in an 
establishment of this kind ; so much going on, so many 
young people, so many pretty new fashions. I am getting 
quite a stock of new ideas for our little dressmaker at 
home : she is a great friend of mine, you know, and I 
promised to keep my eyes open both for dresses and milli- 
nery. 1 think I must write to her to-morrow.” 

It was at this moment that Mr. Holland re-entered the 
room. He came up to the table, drew an armchair for- 
ward, and, taking a newspaper from his pocket, began to 
read ; in a minute, however, he laid it across his knee, 
and sat gazing absently before him. Mrs. Sparrow, a 
trifle disconcerted by her cousin’s frivolous and demo- 
cratic tastes, had lapsed into momentary silence ; Miss 


128 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


Robbins was engaged in absorbing new ideas for her friend. 
It was Mr. Holland who spoke first. 

What sort of young girl,” he said, is Miss Verrinder ? 
She is under your care here, I think, Mrs. Sparrow.” 

‘‘Not so much as I could wish,” answered that lady, 
promptly ; “ not nearly so much as I could wish, Mr. Hol- 
land. She is sadly in need of thorough Christian training, 
poor child ; but though Baroness von Leuwine requested 
me to allow her to sit next to me at table, I have, I regret 
to say, no real authority over her whatever. I do see that 
she changes her wet shoes and stockings when she comes 
in out of the rain — I never knew a young girl more heed- 
less in such matters than Elisabeth — but I really don’t 
know another fault I have been able to correct in her.” 

“ She is more punctual at meals, mamma,” put in Mary, 
good-naturedly. 

“ Perhaps — yes, in that respect I do see a slight im- 
provement ; but there are other and more important 
matters in which she is very sadly wanting ; and I fear — 1 
very much fear — there are worldly influences at work 
quite averse to any I might bring to bear.” 

“ Oh, indeed ! Miss Verrinder is a very worldly young 
person, then,” said Mr. Holland, smiling a little, and tak- 
ing up his newspaper again. Mr. Holland, it may be 
observed in passing, held Mrs. Sparrow and her opinions 
in no very great esteem. He had not come to Schloss- 
berg to be admonished by the chaplain’s wife, and he had 
already found occasion to change his place at the table, 
under pretext of a draught — a pretext that Mrs. Sparrow 
had seen through at a glance, and which might have 
roused her deepest indignation but for the interpretation 
she was able to put upon it. “ I rejoice, James,” she said 
to her husband, “ to perceive the impression I have already 
made on Mr. Holland. I can see he is afraid of my 
arguments ; he had not a word to say in reply, and he 
has moved his seat in consequence.” 

“Pooh, pooh, my dear, nonsense!” said Mr. Sparrow. 
“You’re not in the least likely to have made any impres- 
sion on Holland. I never knew a man with a clearer no- 
tion of what his opinions are, or who sticks to them closer 
than he does. He’s as obstinate as a limpet, and 1 respect 
him for it. He’s sick of hearing you discuss the subject, 
that’s all ; and I don’t at all wonder at it.” 

This brutal frankness, however (to which, indeed, she 
was well accustomed), in no way disturbed Mrs. Sparrow’s 


THE FAIL C/EE OF ELISABETH. 


129 


complacency ; she simply continued to look on Mr. Hol- 
land with an eye of increased benevolence, as a possible 
brand to be rescued. Elisabeth, as another brand, had 
also a share in this wide-embracing benevolence ; Mrs. 
Sparrow would have found her much less interesting had 
she been as strictly orthodox and right-thinking as her 
daughter Mary. 

‘‘Very, very worldly,” she said now, in answer to Mr. 
Holland’s remark, “and much too independent. Once, at 
least, she has been to the opera ; and twice spent her Sun- 
day evenings abroad without ever consulting me or Mr. 
Sparrow, who for the present, at any rate, is her spiritual 
pastor.” 

“Oh, well, there’s no very great liarrn in an opera oc- 
casionally,” said Mr. Holland, “ though I should not rec- 
ommend too much amusement of the kind for young peo- 
ple. It is apt to run into dissipation ; that is where the 
danger lies. But how does Miss Verrinder come to be so 
independent ? She has some relations — an uncle or aunt, 
I believe.” 

“ I know nothing about her relations,” said Mrs. Spar- 
row ; her aunt writes to the Baroness and Frau Werner, 
but she has not thought fit to communicate with me. Had 
she done so, I should have written to her at length, and 
begged her to place Elisabeth more completely under my 
authority. Being ignored, I can do nothing.” 

“ Nonsense, my dear,” said her husband, joining with 
some suddenness in the conversation ; “ I should have al- 
lowed you to do nothing of the kind. What is Miss Ver- 
rinder to us, that you should accept any responsibility 
in the matter? If it were a guardianship, now, with an 
allowance, it would be another thing altogether ; eh, Hol- 
land ? But the Baroness has simply thrust the young lady 
upon us, and I doubt if we shall get as much as a civil 
thank you for our pains. Now, considering that Miss 
Verrinder will have three hundred a year of her own when 
she comes of age ” 

“Dear me, James, who told you that?” said his wife. 
“ I was not aware of it.” 

“ The Baroness told me,” he answered. “ I’ve never 
discussed the subject with you, my dear ; you accepted 
everything the Baroness von Leuwine said, without con- 
sulting me, and there was an end of the matter. But I was 
not going to have Miss Verrinder fastened on to us with- 
out knowing anything about her. Wliy, she might have 


130 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


been borrowing money of us ; she might have been simply 
left on our hands ; eh, Holland ? Even as it is, I don’t see 
it ; I don’t see it at all.” 

Mr. Sparrow rose with the last words and left the room. 
His wife looked after him admiringly. 

‘‘That is so like your father, Mary,” she said ; “to see 
him, Mr. Holland, one would imagine him entirely ab- 
sorbed in his books and the weightier functions of his of- 
fice. ‘All these lighter matters I leave to you.’ That is 
what he says to me frequently. And yet, you see, when it 
comes to the point, he is far more practical than I am. I 
never thought of inquiring about Elisabeth’s worldly af- 
fairs ; it was her soul, poor child, that interested me. 
Poor child, indeed ! with a fortune lying in wait for her as 
a snare, and so little sense of responsibility.” 

“Ah, well, three hundred a year is no such great for- 
tune,” said Mr. Holland; “no such great fortune. Still, 
better than nothing,” he went on musingly, “far better 
than nothing.” He sat silent a moment, then slowly fold- 
ing his newspaper, replaced it in his pocket. “Miss Ver- 
rinder,” he said, pausing as he prepared to rise, “is very 
independent, you say. But as regards money, now — as an 
heiress in a small way, I suppose she is pretty independent 
in that respect also.” 

“No, that I am sure she is not,” interposed Mary Spar- 
row, “ for I asked her the other day to give something 
toward a poor woman’s clothes, and she said she would 
have no money at all till the new year.” 

Mr. Holland was silent a minute. He was not a little 
puzzled as to how Elisabeth had procured the hundred 
marks ; but after all, as he immediately reflected, it was 
not a point that concerned him. “ Her relations are care- 
ful, no doubt,” was all he said in answer, “ and in that they 
are right. It is unwise to trust a young girl with too much 
money. Or perhaps she is careless in her expenditure.” 
He rose from his chair. “She seems an amiable young 
girl,” he said, addressing Mrs. Sparrow, “well-disposed, 
right-minded, a little heedless, perhaps, as is natural at 
her age, but not otherwise blameworthy. One must not 
expect too much of young people.” 

He smiled kindly at Mary Sparrow as he spoke, and 
slowly left the room. Miss Robbins looked after him. 

“ Well !” she said, I do think that foraclergymanMr. Hol- 
land has very extravagant notions. Three hundred a year 
no great fortune for a young thing like Miss Verrinderl 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 131 

I know I should be glad to have three hundred a year — 
very glad, indeed. And I must say, Jane, if you’ll excuse 
my saying so, I didn’t quite like the way in which your 
husband spoke of Miss Verrinder, as if she were in a con- 
spiracy to rob you, or worse. I’ve ne^^er spoken to her, 
but I’ve seen her at meals ; and I’m sure she’s a very 
nice, pretty, quiet girl.” 

“My husband was perfectly right,” Mrs. Sparrow an- 
swered, with dignity. “There is no question of robbing, 
of course ; and if there were, it would not be the money 
James would think of. He is a most liberal man ; I am 
sure the sums he gives to charities are what most people 
would think quite beyond our limited means. But James 
hates to be imposed upon ; and in our position, standing 
at the head of the English society in whatever place we 
go to, it is incredible the multitude of applications that 
are made to us, each of which has to be considered on its 
own merits. I could tell you of more than one painful 
experience, my dear Arabella ; of more than one most 
painful experience. Personally, I admit, I had no doubts 
about Elisabeth, since she was recommended to me by the 
Baroness ; but one cannot be too careful ; and it is the 
principle, the principle that we ought to hold to. I feel 
rebuked, I own, for my want of forethought. But all is 
well that ends well, and Elisabeth, you see, has three 
hundred a year ! It is perhaps in this way, by not taking 
thought, that we entertain angels unawares.” 

And Elisabeth meanwhile, up-stairs in her own room, 
was crying her eyes out in a torrent of tears, the final re- 
sult of all the agitations of the day. The room was dark ; 
she had flung herself in the darkness face downward on 
her bed, and lay there sobbing out her heart. Tears were a 
relief ; she wanted to cry. The great dread of grief that 
comes in later life, the terrible shrinking from the emo- 
tion that shakes and rends existence to its foundation, is 
happily unknown to the young, who have the compensa- 
tions of inexperience as well as its terrors. But presently, 
as Elisabeth calmed down, her large and vague misery 
began to take a more definite form ; it took the shape of 
her necklace. Elisabeth had loved her turquoise trinket ; 
it had been given her by her mother, who had fastened it 
round the neck of the little five-year-old girl in the last 
days of her life. “ She will remember my doing it,” the 
poor mother had said, looking at the curly-headed child 
capering with glee before the mirror at the pretty blue 


132 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


plaything leaping up and down on her white frock. ‘^Let 
her keep it always.” Elisabeth had remembered ; she had 
always kept it ; and no one of her possessions had been so 
precious to her. And now she would never see it again. 

After a while, however, she began to think of the inscrip- 
tion on her necklace, whose meaning she had never under- 
stood until a few days back. Somehow, that comforted 
her a little ; it was something for her imagination to cling 
to in her unhappiness. It seemed as though it must have 
been put there on purpose for her. Presently she was not 
far from thinking that it must certainly have been put 
there on purpose for her. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE DAY AFTER. 

When Elisabeth next met Mr. Holland, he treated her 
with a particular kindness that filled the poor child’s heart 
with joy. She had felt so terribly, so unaccountably 
guilty toward him, so much more guilty than she had 
ever felt toward anyone before, that this sense of special 
favor, this more than plenary absolution, could hardly 
have seemed to her more exquisite, had it descended 
straight from heaven on an arciiangel’s wings. They met 
on the morning after their somewhat agitated interview. 
It happened to be a Thursday, the Schlossberg half- holiday, 
when Elisabeth’s classes closed at mid-day ; and she was 
descending the steps of the Pension Werner on her way 
to Madame von Waldorf’s house, where she was to dine at 
one o’clock, and give the Baroness a sitting directly after- 
ward. A sudden call of business was taking the Ba- 
roness to Vienna some weeks earlier than she had origin- 
ally intended ; she would be leaving Schlossberg in a few 
days, and she was anxious to finish Elisabeth’s head, that 
she was modelling in clay, before she went. Elisabeth came 
down the steps wrapped in her brown cloak, her little 
brown hat pulled well over her eyes ; for her eyes were 
reddened and swollen a little still with last night’s crying, 
and her cheeks were pale. Mr. Holland had left the house 
but two minutes before her. Elisabeth had, in fact, seen 
him descending the stairs ; and with a sudden tremor, re- 
tarded her own progress till she beard the house door 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 133 

close behind him. He was crossing the road ; but hearing 
in his turn the house door close as she came out into the 
street, turned his head. Seeing who it was, he at once re- 
traced his steps. 

“Well, how are you to-day?” he said, holding out his 
hand. 

Elisabeth, reddening as usual, gave him her hand, but 
was incapable of speech. The clergyman, seeing her con- 
fusion, went on talking without waiting for an answer. 

“A cold day,” he said. “Well, well, here we are not 
far from November. We can’t expect summer weather 
any longer now, and we may be thankful to have this 
bright sunshine instead of a fog, as we might have in Eng- 
land. And where are you off to, my dear ? To your 
classes, as usual ?” 

“Not to-day. It’s a half holiday. I am going to Ma- 
dame von Leuwine’s,” said Elisabeth, recovering some 
measure of voice and composure. “ 1 am going to dine 
there.” 

“Ah, Madame von Leuwine — at my sister’s house, you 
mean,” said Mr. Holland. He stood silent a moment, 
smoothing down his mustache and beard with his fore- 
finger, a gesture habitual with him. “ So we shall not see 
you at dinner to-day,” he said then, smiling at her. 

“ No,” said Elisabeth, coloring again at the kindness of 
his look and tone. “ I am going to sit to the Baroness ; 
she is doing my head in clay, you know.” 

“ Ah, yes, she likes doing that sort of thing,” said Mr. 
Holland, “ and she is very clever at it ; the Baroness is a 
very clever woman.” He paused again, looking at Elisa- 
beth. “Well,” he said, “I mustn't detain you; I hope 
you’ll have a very pleasant time. And don’t worry your- 
self, my dear ; there is no need for you, you know, to 
worry yourself.” 

He spoke with extreme kindness. Elisabeth looked up 
at him ; the tears rushed to her eyes again, and she turned 
her head quickly away. Mr. Holland would think her 
too silly if she cried every time he spoke to her. He took 
no notice, however ; but raising his soft clerical hat, re- 
crossed the road and went on his way in one direction, 
while Elisabeth pursued hers in another. That was all 
that passed between them ; but a sense of heaven, as I 
have said, filled her heart as she walked along. Mr. Hol- 
land did not think the worse of her, after all, for what had 
passed ; he forgave her entirely. Elisabeth did not re» 


134 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


pent then of having sold her turquoise necklace. A mo- 
ment such as this was worth a hecatomb of necklaces. 

She was destined, however, to hear more about her neck- 
lace before the day closed. Still fanned by those airs of 
Paradise, she arrived at Madame von Waldorf’s house, and 
dined tHe-a-tHe with the Baroness, Emilia, with her little 
daughter, having gone to pay a few hours’ visit in the 
country. Elisabeth always liked dining at Madame von 
Waldorf’s. The lofty room, with windows opening on to 
the terrace, the small square dining-table set with the 
whitest of damask, the most shining of glass and silver, 
afforded a very enlivening contrast to the long, somewhat 
dingily appointed board round which Frau Werner’s 
guests gathered three times a day. Elisabeth enjoyed it 
most when she found herself alone with the Baroness. 
With Madame von Waldorf she still, as has been said, felt 
shy and embarrassed; but with the Baroness she was 
almost at her ease. She was so much at her ease, in fact, 
that she permitted herself to continue the fit of abstraction 
into which her meeting with Mr. Holland had thrown 
her. The Baroness, in her easy-fitting drab merino gown, 
her broad benevolent face beaming above a worked cam- 
bric collar of a date some twenty years back, glanced at 
her young companion from time to time. Her pale 
cheeks, her reddened and swollen eyelids, did not escape 
the Baroness’s notice. She took the girl’s arm at the con- 
clusion of the meal to lead her up to the studio, giving her 
at the same time a friendly tap on the shoulder. 

‘‘ Do you know,” she said, ^Hf you were one of my girls 
I should give you a good shaking.” 

Oh, why ? ” said Elisabeth, starting. 

Because you don’t pay the smallest attention to what 
I am saying. Here have I been talking to you all through 
dinner, and not a word in reply have I been able to 
get.” 

Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Elisabeth, in confusion. 

I thought I answered always.” 

‘‘Yes, yes,” said the Baroness ; “‘Yes’ and ‘No;’ gen- 
erally put in the wrong places. I declare,” she continued 
good-humoredly, “ I should like to shake all you young 
girls in a sack together, to put a little sense into your 
heads. It’s a mercy that up to eighteen or so you are the 
most unimportant beings in creation, or the world would 
be in a bad way. But here are you not far from eighteen, 
pay dear. You must mend your ways ; you must mend 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


135 


your ways.” She turned Elisabeth’s face to the light as 
they entered the studio. “ What’s the matter with you ? ” 
she said. What have you been crying about ?” 

“Nothing — nothing, indeed,” said Elisabeth, turning 
away her head. “ I’ve not been crying ; not to-day, that 
is ; a little last night, but it’s over now.” 

“ Over, is it ? ” said the Baroness. “ Nothing gone wrong 
at the pension ? Nothing that is making you unhappy ? ” 

“No, no,” said Elisabeth, with eagerness. “I am very 
happy, really — very happy, indeed.” 

“ So, so ; that is well,” said the Baroness, releasing her. 
Then taking her arm again : “ Listen to me,” she said. 
“ If you’re in any trouble, come to me. Do you under- 
stand ? Or rather, since I am going away, write to me. 
Don’t be afraid. Do you understand ?” 

“Yes, thank you,” said Elisabeth, shyly. She was 
grateful to the Baroness, but deep in her heart lay the 
conviction that so long as Mr. Holland remained in 
Schlossberg she would need no other friend. Who could 
be so good and kind as he was ? The Baroness regarded 
her with attention for a moment. 

“Well, to business,” she said then, enveloping herself in 
a huge linen apron ; “ we have no time to lose, though I 
hope to finish everything essential to-day. Don’t touch 
your hair, my dear ; it will do very well. Only your head 
a little more this way — so.” 

The Baroness, manipulating her clay, and studying 
Elisabeth’s face, had occasion to note more than one 
change of expression in the course of the next hour. 
Elisabeth, having nothing to do but to remain perfectly 
still, began, as was her habit while sitting to the Baroness, 
to go over the notes of her lectures, so as to make sure of 
having them properly in her head. There was also an 
essay to be written treating of the sixteenth century in 
France ; this was a fine opportunity for composing it. 
But Elisabeth’s mind slipped in the promptest manner 
from the sixteenth century to this actual hour in the nine- 
teenth century, which held such infinitely greater interest 
for her. She could not think of Frangois Premier ; she 
could think only of Mr. Holland. The Baroness, turning 
her eyes on her from minute to minute as she sat there 
motionless, her chin a little lifted, her gaze fixed on a 
patch of blue sky, saw a flush, as it were, a brightening 
dawn of emotion, pass over the girl’s features ; her eyes, 
Still heavy from last night’s tears, softened and lighted 


136 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


up, her lips parted and trembled a little, her faint color 
deepened ; the young face, on which experience had 
traced no lines as yet, was transfigured as a landscape is 
transfigured in the transcendant evening light, as one sees 
now and then a face transfigured under the influence of 
certain strains of music. Elisabeth, in fact, was listening 
to a music more divine to her apprehension than any 
earthly strain ; she w^as lending ear to the mystic raptur- 
ous chant that a fresh young soul, disposed by nature for 
worship, raises before the shrine in which it has set its idol. 
The Baroness, meanwhile, worked on rapidly, effacing a 
line here, strengthening another there. 

“ That will do for the present,'’ she said at last, ‘'you 
can rest a little now.” 

Elisabeth looked round, half-dazed for the moment, her 
eyes dazzled by their fixed gaze on the blue light. Then 
she descended from the high seat on which she had been 
perched, and going up to the Baroness, put her hand into 
hers, and with a movement foreign to her usual shy diffi- 
dence, kissed her. The elder woman put her arm round 
the girl’s waist and drew her toward her. 

“ The child is in love,” she said to herself ; “ but with 
whom ? Whom can she have seen ? Merciful powers I 
not with Gordon, I trust ; heaven forbid.” 

“Well,” she said, addressing Elisabeth, “there you are, 
you see. How do you like yourself? ” 

“ I like it very much,” said Elisabeth ; “ I don’t think it 
can be very like me, though.” 

“Not as you see yourself in the glass, I dare say,” said 
the Baroness ; “ but like you, nevertheless. And now, if 
you will do me a favor, my dear child, you will go into 
the garden and pick me some chrysanthemums. I have 
not a flower left, as you see ; and Madame von Waldorf is 
coming to take coffee with me on her return from the 
country. You can go while I write a note ; and afterward 
we can work again for a little while.” 

The Baroness, as she spoke, moved to the further end 
of the room, and pouring some water into a china basin, 
set in a curtained recess, began to wash her hands. “ Can 
it be Gordon ?” she said to herself, still preoccupied with 
her idea. “ Poor child ! I don’t believe he has ever 
looked at her ; not that that would make much difference 
on her side. Well, I must find out if I can.” 

“ I must make my room gay,” she said, going back to 
Elisabeth, since Madame von Waldorf is coming. She 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 137 

will feel deserted soon. I go on Monday, and Mr. Temple 
will be leaving Schlossberg before long.” 

‘'Oh, will he?” said Elisabeth, not greatly interested, 
and engaged in tying the strings of her cloak. “ Where 
is he going ? ” 

“To the East — to Persia, I believe. He has a travelling 
appointment, and will be absent for some time. Madame 
von Waldorf will miss him.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Elisabeth ; “but it will be nice for him, 
won’t it ? Isn’t he very fond of travelling ? What sort of 
chrysanthemums would you like me to get for you ? Do 
you like all kinds ? ” 

“Yes, all kinds,” said the Baroness, absently. “No, it 
is not Gordon,” she decided. “ Well, perhaps I was mis- 
taken after all.” She turned to her work and began to 
handle the clay again, forgetful of her note. “ To-morrow, 
also,” she said to Elisabeth, “you will have to find me an 
hour, my dear, between your classes, that I may finish 
what I have to do. There is more than I thought. And, 
by the by, Elisabeth, to-morrow I should like you to 
bring your necklace with you ; I have an idea that I might 
introduce it with good effect, but I cannot be sure till I see 
it again.” 

“ My necklace ! ” said Elisabeth. 

“Yes, your turquoise necklace. Why, what is the mat- 
ter?” cried the Baroness, suddenly noting the expression 
of Elisabeth’s face. “You have not lost it, child, surely ? 
It’s not that you have been crying about ?” 

“ No, no, I have not lost it,” said Elisabeth, in extreme 
embarrassment ; “ but I don’t know — I don’t know whether 
I can bring it.” 

“Not lost it — can’t bring it! But, in short, my dear 
child, what then have you done with it ? ” said the Bar- 
oness. “ Have you given it away ?” 

“No,” said Elisabeth; “I have — I’ll bring it if I can ; 
perhaps I can.” A wild project flitted through her brain 
of begging the antiquary to let her have her necklace 
again for only one hour. 

“ Come, come,” said the Baroness; “some mishap has 
occurred, I see — some piece of carelessness. You are a 
sadly careless child, Elisabeth, and you don’t like to tell 
me. But tell me, by all means, my dear child ; no doubt 
it can be remedied, whatever it is. Not now, though,” she 
added, as a footstep sounded on the stair outside, “ for I 
hear Gordon Temple coming. Go into the garden now 


138 THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 

and get me my flowers. We can have our explanation 
afterward.” 

Elisabeth escaped but too gladly, brushing past Gordon, 
flying down the stairs as though a dozen detectives were at 
her heels, all demanding the vanished necklace at once. 
Out in the garden she forgot her errand for a moment in 
sheer terror and desperation as she strayed along the sunny 
walks. Here were all her bristling difficulties upon her 
once more, not a pin-point of an outlet, as it seemed, be- 
tween their serried points, and a guilty conscience behind 
all. Once, as a little child of four or five, Elisabeth had 
sat up in her crib one morning to finish some scrap of 
needlework that had engaged her childish fancy, only pre- 
sently to discover in an anguish of remorse that the day 
was Sunday, and that as she set her stitches she had irrevo- 
cably broken the Fourth Commandment ; and at seventeen 
she had still something of the moral sensitiveness and 
moral perception she had had at five. To herself it seemed 
that she had been commiting a series of heinous crimes in 
these last few days. Tiie Baroness’s questions had shattered 
entirely that fine serenity brought about by Mr. Holland’s 
goodness. She would have to tell everything to the Bar- 
oness, and the Baroness would think her as wicked as Mr. 
Holland had done — more wicked, since already, without 
knowing the facts, she evidently thought it dreadful that 
there should be a difficulty about the necklace. It did not 
occur to Elisabeth to drown herself in the little round 
pond deserted by the goldfish in these last chilly days ; it 
would not have occurred to her had her need and despair 
been a hundred times greater than they were. But the 
thought of flight and freedom did cross her mind once 
more ; to run and hide herself away anywhere — anywliere 
that she might see no one she knew ever again. Her heart 
bounded for an instant at the thought, as it had done last 
night ; but it sank again immediately, as it had not done 
last night — as though someone had given it a dull pull 
back. And, in any case, she could not go away, she had 
no money ; she had thought all that out before. Elisabeth 
fell to pulling her nosegay in sheer despair, while her 
tears began to drop and drop till the red and brown 
autumn flowers looked as though visited by a sudden 
spring shower. In the meantime a conversation, not with- 
out results for her, was taking place up-stairs, where the 
Baroness was entertaining her visitor. 

she said to him, as he hesitated a moment 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


139 


on the threshold ; “ no, you are not disturbing me. On 
the contrary, I have just sent Elisabeth into the garden 
for a few minutes’ rest. Sit down ; 1 can go on with what 
I am doing while you talk.” 

“ 1 can’t stay,” he answered. “ I only came, in fact, to 
say that I can’t dine here this evening. I have some work 
that I must finish.” 

“Ah, that is tiresome of you — and of your work,” said 
the Baroness, pinching her clay. ‘‘Well I am sorry, in 
short. Here I leave Schlossberg on Monday, and heaven 
knows when we may meet again. I am getting too 
old to look forward to meetings ; I am getting too old 
not to grudge losing a pleasure. That is where we old 
people and the young ones meet. In middle life we are 
simply indifferent.” 

Her companion laughed. “You talk,” he said, “as if 
you were in your decrepid hundredth year, instead of be- 
ing the youngest person I know. Well I grudge losing a 
pleasure, too, though I am neither old nor young ; and I 
mean to come in for an hour after dinner this evening. 
But I don’t care to leave my father for long just now; 
there you have the truth.” 

“ He is not unwell,” said the Baroness, turning round 
quickly. “ Emilia and I saw him yesterday.” 

“No, no,” he said. He gave rather an awkward laugh, 
and set his hat on the ground. “ I don’t like looking for- 
ward to meetings, either,” he said ; “ you see, we are alike 
in every particular.” 

“ Oh, no doubt,” said the Baroness, looking at him with- 
out much heeding her words. “You look tired,” she said, 
a minute afterward; “what have you been doing with 
yourself ? ” 

“ I am not at all tired,” he answered ; “ Fm rather both- 
ered, that’s all. I’m rather bothered,” he went on, as the 
Baroness did not speak, “ at not getting some money I 
had some reason to expect. It has rather put me out for 
the moment ; it won’t matter ultimately.” 

“ But, my dear Gordon, are you not really wanting in — 
what shall I say ? — common-sense, let me call it,” said the 
Baroness, “that you should worry for one moment about 
money when Emilia and I ” 

“ Oh, confound it all ! ” cried the young man, springing 
up. “ I beg your pardon. Baroness, but how can you say 
such things to me ? I declare,” he protested with a laugh, 
“ if I had not the sweetest and most candid nature in the 


140 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


world, you and Emilia would have ruined it long ago. I 
come and tell you all my troubles, and this is the way I am 
met. It is a premium on telling lies, you’ll allow. I shall 
take to telling them.” 

Oh, I dare say you are as capable of it as the rest 
of the world,” said the Baroness ; “ only you would always 
be found out. Besides, we should find you dull company. 
We like hearing your troubles, as the amiable formula has 
it.” 

‘‘Well, I’m sure I gratify you,” he said. He came to 
her side, and stood gazing at the work she was engaged 
on, absently and a little frowningly at first, then with an ex- 
pression that cleared. 

“ That is charming,” he said ; “ that is one of the best 
things you have done. But you have embellished your 
subject. Miss Verrinder is not so pretty as that.” 

“ Yes, yes, she is quite as pretty,” said the Baroness ; 
“you have never found it out, I daresay, because she is 
always too shy to speak when you are present. That is 
how she will look in a year or two, when she has gained 
confidence, and is more alive, perhaps, to her own charm.” 

Gordon looked at it for a minute in silence. “ By the 
by,” he said, “ it is an odd coincidence, but you know 
that necklace Miss Verrinder had on the other night ? It 
is a fine piece of Oriental work. Well, I went to-day 
into Levi’s shop— the antiquary, you know — to look at 
some engraved amulets he has, and I saw one exactly like 
it ” 

“ What ! ” cried Madame von Leuwine, “ then she has 
sold it ! ” 

“ Sold it? Why, what do you mean ?” said the young 
man. 

“ Heavens ! ” cried the Baroness, without heeding him ; 
“ what dreadful scrape has that unhappy child got herself 
into ? I did think she was to be trusted.” She ran to the 
window and flung it open. “ Elisabeth ! ” she cried. 

Elisabeth sadly wandering in the garden below gather- 
ing and bedewing her flowers, looked up startled. 

“ Elisabeth, come here, I want to speak to you,” said the 
Baroness. She closed the window, and came back into 
the room. “ Now I understand,” she said, “ or rather, I 
understand nothing. But I will understand ; yes, yes, I 
will have no more nonsense.” 

“ Why, what on earth is the matter ? ” said her com- 
panion. 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 141 

Matter ! ” said the Baroness, pulling off her big work- 
ing apron, and rubbing the clay from her fingers ; the next 
moment she tied the apron on again, and took up a fresh 
lump of clay. “The matter is that I tell Elisabeth, not 
half an hour ago, to bring me her necklace to-morrow ; and 
she can and she can’t, and she will and she won’t ; and she 
hasn’t lost it and she hasn’t got it ; and a mystery, in short, 
that she can’t explain ; and all the while it is there in Levi’s 
shop. But there shall be no more mysteries ; I will have 
the whole history from beginning to end. Oh, these girls ! 
I wish to heaven sometimes they were all lay-figures, that 
I might pull their arms and legs into right position with- 
out trouble. I could dispense with their silly brains. Ah, 
there she is ; now I will have the truth. Elisabeth,” she 
began instantly, as the culprit appeared in the doorway, 
“ what made you sell your necklace to Mr. Levi ?” 

Elisabeth turned scarlet, then white. She leant back 
against the doorpost as if about to faint ; but the Baroness 
was merciless. 

“What,” she repeated, “made you sell vour necklace, 
Elisabeth ? ” 

“ Excuse me,” said Gordon, hastily taking up his hat, 
“ but I must be off. Baroness. I shall see you again this 
evening.” 

“Yes, yes, be off,” she said, nodding, “and shut the 
door after you, if you please. Now, Elisabeth,” as the two 
were left alone together, “ tell me the truth. Why did you 
sell your necklace ? Did you want money ?” 

“Yes,” said Elisabeth, with a profound sigh. 

“Then, why on earth didn’t you come to me, my dear 
child ? Did you suppose I should eat you ? ” 

“ Oh, I didn’t like to ! ” said felisabeth, painfully. “ I 
was afraid.” 

“Afraid to tell me of some scrape you’ve got into, I sup- 
pose ? Well, what is your scrape ? Tell me all about it ; 
I won’t scold you more than I can help.” 

Elisabeth tried to speak, but her voice failed. The Bar- 
oness watched her in real anxiety ; she had not presided 
over the destinies of some hundred girls without more than 
one painful experience. At last Elisabeth spoke : 

“I lost my purse,” she said, falteringly, “on board the 
Rhine steamer coming to Schlossberg.” 

“ Oh, you lost your purse ? ” said the Baroness, not re- 
laxing her attention ; “ and what then ?” 

“I had no money — none at all,” said Elisabeth; “and 


142 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


my through ticket to Schlossberg was in the purse, too ; I 
didn’t know what to do, or howto get on ; and then some- 
one— a gentleman I had been talking to — lent me some 
money.” 

‘‘ Oh, these girls ! ” said the Baroness. And who was 
the gentleman, if I may inquire, my dear ? ” 

“ It was — it was Mr. Holland,” said Elisabeth, getting 
very red. ‘‘ He was very, very kind to me.” 

“ Mr. Holland — do you mean Robert Holland, the cler- 
gyman, Madame von Waldorf’s brother ? Why didn’t 
you tell me at once, my dear, instead of dragging me 
tlirough such a nightmare ? But now I don’t understand 
why you sold your necklace.” 

“ It was because I had no money to pay him back,” said 
Elisabeth. She took breath in another profound sigh. 
‘‘Mr. Holland had no change,” she said ; “he had only a 
hundred-mark note that he lent me. He told me to be 
very careful of it, but I — I spent it, because I had no money 
to pay my bill at the Kaiserhof. And when I told Mr. Hol- 
land, he said that it wasn’t — he said that it wasn’t honest to 
spend money I couldn’t repay. And so I sold my necklace.” 

There was a moment’s silence ; Elisabeth read in it her 
condemnation. The tears quivered on her lashes. “ I 
didn’t want not to he honest,” she said, pleadingly, raising 
her eyes to the Baroness’s face. 

“ Naturally,” said the Baroness, in a tone of great cheer- 
fulness, “nobody wants not to be honest. As for you, 
my dear Elisabeth, you are a goose ; the rest of the pro- 
ceedings I will not characterize — no,” she said, “ I will 
not characterize them.” She sat down at her writing-table, 
scribbled off a note, then tore it into fragments, and swept 
them with an impetuous movement on the floor. “ No,” 
she said, “ there are things that cannot be characterized ; it 
is best to be silent ; but heavens ! what a relief a little plain 
speaking would be occasionally.” She went up to where 
Elisabeth stood motionless, leaning against a corner of the 
table. 

“My dear child,” she said, with extraordinary kindness 
— “But don’t cry ; I positively will not have another tear ; 
you have nearly spoilt my day’s work as it is, with your 
red eyes — so, that is better. You are a little goose, my 
dear, as I said before, but you are not otherwise to blame 
in the matter — at least, yes, you are to blame, since you 
should have written to your aunt — oh, you couldn’t ? — well, 
then, you should have told me, who am more or less re- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


143 


sponsible for you just now, of your loss and the money 
you owed. Otherwise, there is no harm in the world done, 
so far as you are concerned. But next time you want a 
hundred marks, tell me, and don’t sell your necklace. You 
sold it for a hundred marks, I suppose ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Elisabeth ; ‘‘ I didn’t know whether it was 
worth so much. The man said at first that it wasn’t ; 
afterwards he said lie would give it to me.” 

‘‘ That was very obliging of him,” said the Baroness. 

At the same time, my dear child, when you next want to 
sell a necklace you will let me know that also, will you 
not? And now suppose we finish our sitting.” 

The Baroness — who, after all, was not at all in the habit 
of depriving herself of such comfort as may be derived 
from a little plain speaking — expressed herself with great 
openness that evening on the subject of Robert Holland. 
The two ladies were seated after dinner in the salon, to- 
gether with Gordon Temple, who had joined them, Emilia 
embroidering by the light of the lamp that illuminated 
her work-table. The Baroness, leaning back in her arm- 
chair, her large, Avell-shaped hands folded in her lap, did 
not hesitate to offer her opinion on what she had heard 
that day with the energy that not unfrequently distin- 
guished her speech. 

I am burning with indignation,” she declared. I 
said this afternoon, Emilia, that your brother’s proceed- 
ings could not be characterized ; but they may be char- 
acterized in a word — they are not the proceedings of a 
gentleman.” 

Madame von Waldorf colored a little. She was em- 
broidering a frock for her little daughter, and continued 
to set the stitches without replying. 

I do not see,” the Baroness continued, rather unreas- 
onably resenting this silence, ‘‘ how you are concerned to 
defend your brother, Emilia. That poor child had been 
bullied into thinking she had committed some dreadful 
crime in using the money he had lent her. You can 
imagine what she thought when she simply ran straight 
out of the house and sold her necklace to repay him at 
once. And yet you defend him ! ” 

‘‘Dear Aunt Irma, I have not said a word,” said Emilia, 
letting her work fall into her lap. “After all — after all, 
however,” she said, resuming her needle, Robert is my 
father’s son, and I find it difficult to believe him so bad as 


144 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


you make him out to be. Probably we have not heard 
the whole story. In any case, Elisabeth Verrinder does 
not strike me as a very wise little person.” 

‘‘ I have heard the whole story,” said the Baroness ; 

Elisabeth spent the afternoon with me. And when she 
had recovered from the extraordinary agitation into which 
merely mentioning the subject at first threw her, I made 
her tell me the whole thing twice over in detail. She is a 
very wise little person, my dear Emilia ; she has more 
brains than twenty of your ordinary girls 'put together. 
But it is true that she is also a little goose. She brought 
no accusation whatever against Robert, but apparently re- 
gards him as an archangel, and herself as to blame from 
beginning to end.” 

^‘You did not undeceive her?” said Madame von Wal- 
dorf, with gentle sarcasm. 

“ I have too much respect for a young girl’s illusions,” 
said the Baroness, drily. ‘‘ Elisabeth considers herself un- 
der immense obligations to Robert Holland. If I had 
represented his conduct to her in its true light, it would 
have been enough to disenchant her with life.” 

Gordon Temple uttered a brief laugh, and thrusting 
his hands into his pockets, began to walk up and down 
the room. Emilia looked up. 

“You — you exasperate me, both of you,” she cried, 
smiling still ; “but you, Gordon, especially. What, after 
all, can you bring against Robert that you should always 
affect this tone about him ? ” 

“Nothing — nothing whatever, I assure you,” he said, 
throwing himself into his chair again, and taking up a 
book. “ On the contrary, I believe him to be an excellent 
parish priest ; and as for personal knowledge, until this 
morning I had not seen him for nearly ten years.” 

“As for Aunt Irma,” continued Madame von Waldorf, 
“ I believe she and Robert quarrelled fatally when she 
tried to take his likeness years ago ; she has never had a 
good word for him since. What, after all, is his crime 
now? He very good-naturedly lends a young girl, a total 
stranger to him, a hundred marks on board the Rhine 
boat, and in course of time expects his money back. Rob- 
ert is not rich ; a hundred marks are probably of impor- 
tance to him. I see no reason why Miss Verrinder should 
not repay him. It is her own doing that she should sell 
her necklace. You do not imagine, I suppose, that he re- 
quested her to do so ? ” 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


145 



“ Oh, my dear Emilia ! ” said the Baroness, waving her 
hand, you know better than all that, my dear child. 
However, defend Robert, by all means, if it amuses you ; 
we all three of us know your brother pretty well, so it does 
no harm. No ; I have no idea that he knew anything of 
Elisabeth’s necklace. The question with me now is how 
to get it back to her. It belonged to her mother ; it nearly 
broke her heart to part with it.” 

The Baroness sat meditating a moment. I don’t want 
to give it back to her myself,” she said ; ‘Ht would be 
against my principles. She had no business to sell it, 
naughty child ; I told her so. She won’t believe me if I 
give it her again.” 

“Ah, that necklace,” said Gordon, laying down his book ; 
“it is well it is not in Ida’s possession by this time. If I 
were not the impecunious wretch I can’t get accustomed 
to, I should straightway have bought it of Levi to-day. I 
did inquire the price.” 

“ Ida is a little savage ; a string of beads would please 
her as well,” said her mother, smiling. “ Dear Aunt Irma, 
there need be no difficulty whatever about the necklace. 
Certainly, Miss Verrinder ought to have it back, and I 
will buy it with pleasure. It is my concern, if it is any- 
one’s in the world.” 

: “ It is your brother Robert’s concern,” said the Baroness, 
promptly ; “ but don’t imagine I think it would be worth 
while to suggest his buying it. That, however, is not all 
the difficulty.” She reflected a moment. “ If you and 
she were better friends Emilia ” 

“ No, I am aware she does not like me very much,” said 
Madame von Waldorf, gently. “ I do not find her easy to 
get on with, as the phrase is.” 

“ And that being the case,” said the Baroness, solving 
the problem with decision, “ our best plan will be for you, 
or me, or someone to get the necklace and give it to your 
brother to return to Elisabeth. It will be a proper repar- 
ation for frightening the girl nearly out of her wits ; it will 
cost him nothing ; I don’t see how he can object. Yes, that 
will arrange everything ; and here comes Ida to put a stop 
to our quarrelling any more about it. Why are you not in 
bed, Ida ? What keeps you up, child, till this hour?” 

“Cousin Gordon told me he was going away at nine 
o’clock,” said the child, “and I told nurse I shouldn’t go 
to bed till then, because I want to shut the front door after 
him.” 


10 


146 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


^‘Dear me, Ida, you must be in a great hurry to see me 
off the premises,” said her cousin, taking iier on his knee. 
‘‘ Have you come to tell me it’s time to go ? I don’t be- 
lieve it’s nine o’clock yet.” 

“Yes, it is; yes, it is,” said Ida, fidgeting down again ; 
“ come along, I want to see you go out into the dark and 
shut the big door after you. Bang it goes, and there you 
are outside and me inside.” 

“ What a heartless speech !” said her cousin ; “is that 
how you’ll treat me when you’re my wife, Ida?” 

“ Oh, I’m not going to be your wife never,” cried 

Ida. “ I’m going to marry nurse’s boy ; his name is Fritz ; 
he’s bigger than me, and I see him go by to school every 
day. Nurse gave me some red wool to knit him some 
mittens ; it was to match his cheeks, she said. I love him 
very much, and as soon as ever we’re growed up. I’m going 
to marry him. Now, come along.” 

“ Hush, Ida,” said her mother, “don’t tease your cousin. 
Why must you go, Gordon ? Is your father expecting 
you ? ” 

“ Well, I told him I should be back early,” said the 
young man ; “ besides I have some work to do. As these 
will be my last lectures here, they should be something 
splendid ! Now, Ida, I am coming, but what I propose is, 
that I should shut the door, that you should be outside 
and I remain inside. What do you say to that ? ” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

SUNDAY AT THE PENSION WERNER. 

The German Protestant church, which by an amicable 
agreement lent itself during certain hours on Sunday for 
the uses of Anglican worship, was closed for repairs that 
would occupy the winter months ; and during this interval 
the English service was held twice every Sunday in the 
large dining-room of Frau Werner’s pension. The good 
lady had lent herself willingly to this arrangement, which, 
while involving certain inconveniences, was, she held, an 
admirable advertisement of her establishment among the 
English visitors to Schlossberg. Every Sunday morning, 
therefore, by eleven o’clock, the long dining-board was 
cleared away, and all the chairs the resources of the house 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


147 


could furnish were ranged in rows from end to end of the 
apartment ; a small harmonium, that had been hired for 
these occasions, occupying a place of honor near the win- 
dow. The final result was not too imposing. A sideboard 
with rather dingy wineglasses and tarnished metal dishes 
maintained its position, with a somewhat incongruous 
effect ; while the disarrangement of the furniture made 
more apparent certain stains on the walls, certain frayed 
patches in the carpet ; the renewal of paper and paint and 
carpet yielding always to other and more pressing claims 
on Frau Werner’s meagre purse. These deficiencies were 
not condoned by the numbers and dignity of the congre- 
gation. Mr. Sparrow was not popular among the English 
residents in Schlossberg ; and of these, not a few took ad- 
vantage of the temporary suspension of the regular Eng- 
lish services to attend the German service at the second 
large Lutheran Church, which accommodated the greater 
portion of the Protestant inhabitants of the town. Never- 
theless, a steady, if somewhat thin stream of best bonnets 
and feathered hats made its way to Frau Werner’s door 
every Sunday morning, and their owners, sparsely scattered 
on the rows of hard chairs, and duly uttering the responses, 
offered a sufficiently respectable semblance of a devout 
congregation. 

On a Sunday morning some ten days after the events re- 
corded in our last chapter, the stream that approached the 
door in the Peterstrasse was denser than usual, the seats 
filled with a certain rapidity. A rumor had gone abroad 
that, Mr. Sparrow being indisposed, his place would be 
taken by the Rev. Robert Holland ; and the prospect of a 
little religious dissipation, taking the form of a new 
preacher and one accredited with some gift of eloquence, 
was sufficient to attract a very considerable number of the 
stray sheep of Mr. Sparrow’s flock. Mr. Sparrow, looking 
down on the street from the window of the room to which 
indisposition confined him, noted the fact with something 
of natural resentment ; it should not — certainly, he decided, 
it need not — occur again. His wife, meanwhile, had far 
too much on her mind for any sense of resentment ; for 
anything, indeed, but the liveliest, the most cheerful ex- 
citement and sense of responsibility. In her husband’s 
absence she had, she felt, to do all the honors of tlie 
church. She always superintended the arrangement of the 
room, but to-day she gave an extra twitch to every chair, 
and herself marked the Psalms and Lessons in the big 


148 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


official Bible and Prayer-book, so as to obviate any awk- 
ward mistakes on the part of Mr. Holland, who, it was to 
be supposed, might probably forget the day of the month 
and the Sunday of the year. She might further have im- 
parted a good deal of useful and occult information to the 
Vicar of Thornton Briars on the methods of conducting 
the Anglican Church service in a pension dining-room, 
methods that had a certain unexpectedness, due to the ab- 
sence of pulpit and reading-desk, clerk and vestry ; but 
here she was arrested by her husband. “ I have explained 
everything to Holland, my dear,” he said, pettishly; “he 
knows all about it and Mrs. Sparrow was silenced. But 
she was consoled by the conviction that there would cer- 
tainly be several points in Mr. Holland’s sermon so little 
agreeable to pure gospel truth as to afford subject for a 
great deal of edifying conversation afterwards, both with 
himself and others. With this enlivening prospect before 
her, she arrayed herself in unusual splendor, and took her 
seat quite early, so as to have an eye to the due marshal- 
ling of the company. 

And meanwhile, up stairs in her sloping attic chamber, 
one little heart was fluttering and beating with an excite- 
ment that made its owner at moments feel quite faint and 
sick as she arranged her hair and put on her hat before 
the glass. As a rule, Elisabeth entertained the most lively 
aversion to the religious functions at the Pension Werner. 
In the strain after that high ideal, that pure emotion, 
which constituted her conception of the religious life, 
nothing commoner than the soaring arches, the dusky 
vistas of pillared aisles beneath some high cathedral roof, 
seemed absolutely appropriate to the worship of an aspir- 
ing soul ; she would sooner, she said to herself — and the 
sentiment expressed the lowest depth to which Elisabeth’s 
imagination could carry her in that direction — she would 
sooner say her prayers in some whitewashed meeting- 
house than in Frau Werner’s dining-room. The conditions, 
too, under which she was expected to say those prayers, 
furnished her further opportunities for discontent. Going 
slowly down-stairs, prayer-book in hand, at about ten 
minutes to eleven on the first Sunday after her arrival, she 
encountered Mrs. Sparrow, bonneted, cloaked, gloved, 
veiled, accompanied by her daughter, similarly attired in 
walking costume. Mrs. Sparrow eyed Elisabeth, dressed 
in her Sunday frock as she had appeared at breakfast, 
vyith some severity. 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


149 


“ My dear,” she said, ‘‘are you not going to church ? ” 

“Yes,” said Elisabeth, eying Mrs. Sparrow in her turn 
with some surprise ; “ but I thought the service was held 
in the house now.” 

“Certainly it is held in the house,” said Mrs. Sparrow 
with unabated severity ; “ but that is no reason, my dear 
Elisabeth, why you should not be decently apparelled. 
To appear as you are now, is an act of disrespect at once 
to the church and to your pastor. Look at Mary ; I 
should never permit her to appear with uncovered head, 
and with simply her morning frock on. Run up-stairs, my 
dear child, and put on your hat and jacket — and don’t 
forget your gloves,” Mrs. Sparrow added, as Elisabeth 
moved somewhat reluctantly away. 

Every Sunday morning, then, found Elisabeth elabor- 
ately donning her out-door attire to sit for a couple of 
hours in the dining-room, where half an hour later she 
took her accustomed place with the other pensionnaires to 
share the mid-day meal. Elisabeth’s sense of humor was 
latent in those young days ; but it did cross her mind one 
day to ask Mrs. Sparrow if she should not also bring her 
umbrella. She locked up the ribald question, however, 
in her profane little heart, and resignedly took her place 
every Sunday morning, and not unfrequently again on 
Sunday afternoon, at Mrs. Sparrow’s side. It added not a 
little to her discomfort that that large lady invariably se- 
cured the central seat in the front row, a comfortable arm- 
chair that she caused to be conveyed there from the salon 
as a tribute to her dignity ; and Elisabeth seated at her side, 
not only felt herself a conspicuous object to the roomful 
of people behind her, but under the immediate fire — 
douche it should, perhaps, be more justly designated — of 
Mr. Sparrow’s cold and disapproving eye. How the poor 
child chafed through the long monotonous service, the 
long dogmatic sermons ! She envied everyone : she envied 
Mary Sparrow at the harmonium, with the recurrent diver- 
sion of making the wheezy instrument squeak, the recur- 
rent excitement of discovering how many notes would fail 
to sound each time she struck a chord ; she envied Frau 
Werner’s children, whose sportive shrieks could be heard 
in the passage outside, till suddenly hushed and suppressed 
by their mother or stout Kathchen, the maid, they were 
borne off captive, but still giggling, to some distant back 
premises ; she envied Frau Werner herself, who — far too 
much occupied, poor soul, with household cares to spare 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


ISO 

a long morning to spiritual observances — was busy in the 
kitchen over the pots and pans that would presently fur- 
nish forth the superior Sunday dinner. Elisabeth, in 
short, envied anyone and everyone as compared with her 
own bored and conscious-stricken self, stricken with a 
terrible sense of her own spiritual disabilities. Were 
people, could people ever be good enough, to enjoy com- 
ing to church in a pension dining-room with Mr. Sparrow’s 
harsh voice to grate through the prayers, and Mary’s flat 
tones to lead off the wavering psalmody ? She supposed 
there could be ; certainly there could be ; it was only she 
herself who was not good enough. Elisabeth, seated on 
the edge of her bed in the seclusion of her own room after 
the service, her head drooping, her hat hanging in her 
hand, sometimes found her eyes fill with tears at the con- 
templation of her own iniquity, her incapacity to call up 
appropriate emotion. She only found consolation in the 
resolve that the following Sunday should find her in a 
more truly spiritual frame of mind. 

On the particular Sunday morning, however, with which 
this chapter opens, Elisabeth, as has been said, was putting 
on her hat with a heart beating and fluttering with excite- 
ment. Nothing in the world, it seemed to her, could be 
quite so momentous as that Mr. Holland should preach 
and that she should hear him. She had seen little of the 
clergyman since that stirring episode of ten days back ; 
an extreme shyness, an undefined emotion that sent the 
blood rushing to her cheeks if she only heard his foot- 
steps in the hall, his voice in the distance, had led her to 
shun him. But every day Mr. Holland had found occa- 
sion to say a few kind words to her, and tliis meagre fare 
had been to the girl the feast on which she lived. She 
pulled her hat well over her eyes, took up her prayer- 
book, and ran down-stairs. The hall was filled with people 
making their way into the dining-room, and Elisabeth was 
seized with dread lest her usual seat at Mrs. Sparrow’s side 
should be filled ; she did not want to sit anywhere else 
to-day. But no, it was still empty. Elisabeth slipped 
into it quietly, and opening her prayer-book, sat patiently 
awaiting the commencement of the service. She did not 
feel wicked to-day ; she felt good, good, good. For her 
also a spiritual atmosphere seemed for once to pervade 
the incongruous place of worship. 

The service, it may be briefly stated, was an immediate 
shock to her. Mr. Holland had cultivated the art of un- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 151 

emotional reading, and succeeded probably beyond his 
desire. His delivery was singularly monotonous and in- 
effective ; Elisabeth could have cried with disappointment 
over his see-saw elocution. But with the sermon there 
came a change. The Vicar of Thornton Briars preached 
well, and he knew it ; and the knowledge gave him the 
confidence that attends all effective achievements. His 
grave voice took persuasive, even eloquent tones ; an ex- 
pression of dignity, lighted up now and again by fires of 
animation, gave elevation to his face, refined and worn 
by illness. He took for his text, For the kingdom of 
heaven is within you.’* This is not the place for a sermon, 
nor indeed, does it concern us except in regard to its ef- 
fect on our heroine ; but the clergyman’s lucid and elo- 
quent exposition of his theme, his argument that the king- 
dom of heaven is not as the kingdoms of this world, to be 
won by outward strife, nor yet a heritage postponed be- 
yond the grave, but that through self-denial, through hu- 
mility, through purity of life and intention and intimate 
union with the Divine will, we can already in this life en- 
ter into possession of that immense and all-satisfying in- 
heritance, arrested the attention of all his hearers. The 
theme was not a new one ; but he was in earnest, and his 
earnestness impressed itself on his audience. Mrs. Spar- 
row forgot to be captious, and thought the sermon almost 
as good as one of her husband’s discourses. As for Elisa- 
beth, she had almost forgotten where she was ; nay, though 
never more intensely self-conscious, she had for a moment, 
in a sense, almost forgotten herself. She sat with parted 
lips, her hat pushed back from her forehead, her eyes fixed 
upon Mr. Holland. A path, down which the Divine glory 
streamed, seemed opening straight before her into heaven. 
Religion was such a storm-tossed subject to Elisabeth ; her 
little boat drifted so rudderless to and fro on that strange 
ocean on which her teachers had launched her; not a rud- 
der she had tried but had proved a broken reed when she 
hoped to steer with it. But this, surely, was what she had 
sought ; here was the help she had so sorely needed. 

Mr. Holland was sufficiently accustomed to the specta- 
cle of thirsty young souls, athirst through the ardent and 
pathetic aspirations of youth, hanging on his words. 
Nevertheless, his glance happening to encounter Elisa- 
beth’s, as he stood nearly facing her, something in the in- 
tensity of its expression struck him. Elisabeth’s eyes met 
Mr. Holland’s but she did not blush, as was her wont ; her 


152 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


lip only quivered, her eyes widened a little like a child’s 
who appeals in trouble where it has trust it will be com- 
forted. In the same instant some words flashed across Mr. 
Holland’s mind so vividly as to bring a perceptible pause 
in his sermon. They were the words : She will have three 
hundred a year of her own.” He recovered himself in- 
stantly, and went on preaching as before ; but the words 
did not pass from his mind. They seemed to him all at 
once so charged with a thousand suggestions that they 
ran backwards and forwards, as it were, all through the re- 
mainder of his discourse. Happily it was one of his best 
sermons ; he had preached it several times before ; he 
knew how to make the points, if the term may be per- 
mitted, without necessarily bringing his entire mind to bear 
upon what he was saying. His congregation were no less 
impressed by the close than by the beginning, though the 
preacher’s own thoughts had somewhat wandered from the 
kingdom of heaven to a very earthly kingdom indeed. 
As for Elisabeth, she no more doubted that these utter- 
ances that had touched her deepest consciousness proceed- 
ed from the lips of one who stood in the Divine light with- 
in those golden gates, toward which she, a wavering dim- 
eyed pilgrim, struggled with faltering feet, than if he had 
stood in visible robes of glory before her eyes. 

Mr. Holland withdrew immediately on the conclusion of 
the service, leaving the congregation to disperse. He 
had hardly, however, divested himself of the' surplice in 
which he had preached, to Mrs. Sparrow’s mingled joy and 
horror (it assisted her to remember afterwards that there 
was, after all, very little pure gospel truth in Mr. Holland’s 
sermon), when he was summoned to Frau Werner’s pri- 
vate sitting-room ; his sister was there and had asked to 
speak to him. Madame von Waldorf had seen little of her 
brother since his arrival in Schlossberg ; beyond one or 
two formal visits they had not met. Mr. Holland disliked 
going to her house ; and the air of grave disapproval with 
which he habitually regarded, her and her surroundings 
testified to the fact. Emilia entered no protest ; she had 
the habit of defending her half-brother in his absence, but 
she found no special pleasure in his presence. . She had 
come to hear him preach, however (in general she attended 
the German Lutheran church) ; she considered it an atten- 
tion, a compliment she owed to her father’s son ; and at 
the conclusion of the service she sent a message, begging 
the favor of a few words with him. 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


153 


Mr. Holland obeyed the summons with reluctance ; lie 
was exceedingly tired ; it might have occurred to Emilia, 
he reflected, that he would be tired — that whatever she 
had to say might be postponed. To do Madame von Wal- 
dorf justice, it did occur to her the moment she saw him 
enter the room with his feeble step. He looked at her 
with the air of gravity that seldom relaxed in her presence. 
He disapproved of her — of her sweet blooming health and 
serenity, of her furs and her velvet and the vague perfume 
that floated about her ; they all expressed that prosperity 
in which he had no share. He did not even look at little 
Ida who had come with her mother, and who, perched on 
a table with a large piece of cake that the excellent Frau 
Werner had hastened to draw forth from some cupboard, 
contemplated her uncle with a child’s wide-eyed, deliber- 
ate stare. He shook hands with his half-sister without 
either word or srhile. 

“ How tired you look, my dear Robert,” said Madame 
von Waldorf, with compunction, it t^as thoughtless of 
me to ask to see you now.” 

“I am exceedingly fatigued,” he said, sinking into an 
armchair; “it is the first time since my illness began that 
I have taken the service.” There was a minute’s silence. 
“You had something to say to me?” he said then. 

* “It will not take two minutes,” said Madame von Wal- 
dorf with a certain embarrassment. “ But first,” she went 
on, blushing very charmingly, “yo-ti must allow me, Robert 
— you must allow me to thank you for your admirable ser- 
mon. It is the first time I have heard you preach ; you 
must forgive my saying I had no idea how eloquent a 
preacher you are.” 

“ You are very good,” he replied, closing his eyes with 
an air of indifference. Then, with a momentary glance at 
her: “I should not have supposed it,” he said, “the sort 
of sermon thht would especially appeal to you.” 

Madame von Waldorf was hurt, but with her customary 
sweetness she endeavored not to show it. “ They were 
words that should appeal to everyone, I think,” she said,, 
gently. “That, however,” she immediately continued, 
“was not what I came to speak about. It was to ask you, 
Robert, to be good enough to execute a little commission 
for me. I have here a necklace belonging to Miss Ver- 
rinder.” 

“To Miss Verrinder?” said her brother, turning half 
round fa his chair, 


154 


THE FAIJMRE OF ELISABETH, 


Yes, to Miss Verrinder. She has behaved like a fool- 
ish child ; but the matter can easily, I think, be set right. 
You lent her, I believe, some money, Robert ?” 

He did not immediately answer. ‘‘ That is a matter 
there can be no occasion to refer to,’' he said then with a 
certain rigidity; ‘‘it is already arranged.” 

“I am aware — I am aware,” said Emilia. She was ex- 
ceedingly ill at ease. The Baroness herself could not have 
set her brother’s conduct before her in a more glaring 
light than that in which it presented itself at that moment. 
She wished now she had written instead of speaking on the 
subject. “ I am aware that it is settled,” she said, “ but 
at a cost that I — that we none of us can permit. Miss 
Verrinder, in order to repay her debt to you, parted with 
a valuable necklace.” 

“ Miss Verrinder ” Mr. Holland began, but checked 

himself. “ I was not aware of it,” he said, stiffly. 

“ Certainly, no one imagined that you were,” said Ma- 
dame von Waldorf, with more coldness than she had yet 
shown. She paused again. “It came, however, to my 
knowledge,” she went on, “and I could not permit that so 
trifling a debt should be repaid at so heavy a cost. I have 
therefore, repurchased the necklace.” 

Mr. Holland turned his eyes on her for a minute. “ You 
speak much at your ease,” he said, slowly raising himself 
in his chair, “ of trifling debts. The different circumstances 
of our life, however, probably necessitate a different point 
of view. Kindly inform me what it is you wish me to do.” 

“ I wish you,” said Madame von Waldorf, taking a 
packet from her muff — “ I would ask you, that is, Robert, 
to be good enough to return her necklace to Miss Ver- 
rinder. She has acted, as I said, like a foolish child ; she 
ought, of course, to have applied in her difiiculty to Aunt 
Irma, who would have given her the money for you at 
once ; or, more properly still, to her aunt in England. She 
seems, however, to be really only a child in practical mat- 
ters, and to have acted on impulse under great distress of 
mind.” 

Madame von Waldorf paused. Something perhaps in 
her tone, if not in her words, implied a certain blame, 
from which Mr. Holland seemed impelled to defend him- 
sslf. “All this,” he said slowly, “is news to me. Miss 
Verrinder is a young lady in whom I take some interest. 

I certainly suggested the repayment of a sum of money 
that, whatever it may appear to you, is of no little cou- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 155 

sequence to me. Miss Verrinder, as you say, is a child in 
practical affairs ; the matter might easily have slipped 
from her memory altogether. I know nothing of this acute 
distress of mind of which you speak. You will permit me 
to add, Emilia, that the tone you allow yourself in speak- 
ing to me sounds very strangely in my ears. It is one to 
which I am hardly accustomed. Inferiority of fortune 
does not necessarily imply inferiority of position.” 

He turned as though to leave the room ; Madame von 
Waldorf arrested him. The tone the conversation had 
taken was odious to her ; there was nothing she held more 
in horror than the commonness, the ugliness of a wordy 
controversy. The presence of little Ida seemed to empha- 
size the ugliness ; the child lived habitually in the atmos- 
phere of sweet and reasonable forbearance that made her 
mother’s ideal of life. But Ida was paying no heed ; hav- 
ing finished her cake, her attention was entirely absorbed 
by the enlargement of a minute hole where a stitch had 
slipped in one of the white knitted gaiters that protected 
her stout little legs. Emilia laid her hand on her half- 
brother's arm. 

Dear Robert,” she said, with an accent of real distress, 
‘‘ I must have expressed myself strangely indeed for you 
to interpret my words after so strange a fashion. But let 
us leave discussion. My request, after all, is a very sim- 
ple one. Will you kindly return Miss Verrinder her neck- 
lace without saying how it came into your possession ? It 
will be better, I think, that my name should not be men- 
tioned. I do not know Miss Verrinder very well, and it 
might reasonably annoy her that I should be mixed up in 
the matter. The simplest, the most gracious way would 
be for you to return it to her, leaving her to understand 
that it has come to your knowledge ” 

Excuse my interrupting you,” said Mr. Holland. “I 
am willing to restore the trinket to Miss Verrinder; but 
you will permit me, Emilia, to be myself the judge of tiie 
best method of doing so.” 

He took the parcel from his sister's hand, and without 
further words left the room. Madame von Waldorf stood 
absolutely disconcerted for a moment ; it could never have 
occurred to her, she said to herself, that her brother Rob- 
ert could show himself in a light so little advantageous ; 
certainly no one had ever spoken to her after quite such a 
fashion before. Emilia was accustomed to what she called 
her cousin Gordon's snubbings ; she was not accustomed 


156 THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 

to being made to feel that she had acted disagreeably and 
put herself in the wrong. She was roused by Ida’s ciy of 
glee. 

‘‘See, mamma,” she cried, “I’ve made the beautifullest 
hole ; I can see the pink through.” 

Madame von Waldorf lifted her daughter from the table, 
and entertained her on the way home by a relation of the 
sad consequences that might attend on making holes in 
knitted gaiters ; a relation to which Ida listened, it may 
be said, with the large incredulity of a healthy child who 
has, so far, had no consciousness of consequences at all. 
Nothing could appear quite so great a joke to Ida as sad 
consequences. 

Mr. Holland, meanwhile, whose experience of conse- 
quences was a sufficiently varied one, had withdrawn to 
the silence of his own apartment. He was, as he had said, 
exceedingly fatigued. He had intended to pay a visit to 
liis brother-clergyman at the conclusion of the service ; 
instead, he rang the bell, desired the red-armed maid, who 
presently appeared, to serve him his dinner in his own 
room, and sinking into an arm-chair, sat motionless for 
awhile with the sense of exhaustion that precludes thought. 
No one came near him ; the pension guests were engaged 
in taking off their bonnets, in discussing the sermon, in 
preparing for the midday meal ; and presently the isolation 
in which he found himself — that singular isolation of the 
solitary sojourner in an hotel full of people — struck pain- 
fully on the lonely man. At home, a dozen people would 
have been ready to press round him after the service, to 
minister to his wants, to suggest one thing or another for 
his comfort. An extreme depression, the reaction from 
his morning’s efforts, fell upon him now. Mr. Holland 
was at no time a man who courted loneliness ; he had a 
social temper ; he had found nothing uncongenial in the 
trivial gayeties of his parish, in the tea-drinkings, in the 
sociable suppers that succeeded school-room and choir 
practices ; and these had been of sufficient frequency in 
the days of his health and energy to leave him little time 
for any of the lonely sensations proper to a bachelor. He 
was not a reading man ; outside his work he had few re- 
sources, as people say. His tastes were not very elevated, 
but they were respectable ; they had sufficed him ; he 
missed the satisfaction of them now. Some compensation 
he had found in the social life of the pension ; but in a 
moment of depression like the present, the compensation 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


^7 


could present itself in no very flattering light. Almost 
he resolved to throw up the game, to go back to his parish 
and die, if die he must, among his own people. It was a 
tragic moment for this middle-aged, middle-class clergy- 
man, cut off at once from the work that he loved, and from 
which he drew all the elevation of which he was capable, 
and from tiie mild diversions of his once energetic life. It 
marked the lowest ebb to which his spirit had fallen. 

The arrival of his dinner roused him, and food and wine 
presently revived his courage ; he began to pull himself 
together again. Nevertheless, the sense of loneliness left 
by his hour of depression did not pass ; he felt horribly 
lonely. He began to move feebly about his room, trying 
to put things into some order. Mr. Holland was a tidy 
man without neatness ; it fidgeted him, that is to say, to 
see things out of their exact places — it interfered with his 
conception of the economy of life — but he had no special 
gift for keeping them there ; and red-armed Kathchen, 
with twenty rooms on her hands every day had a spe- 
cial gift for leaving them untouched. Presently he de- 
sisted with a sigh, and sinking again into his armchair, 
he took up the packet confided to him by his sister. It was 
wrapped in paper, and secured by a ribbon only. With 
a movement of curiosity, Mr. Holland untied the ribbon, 
removed the paper, and taking the necklace from its case, 
contemplated it for a moment. A pretty trinket, he de- 
cided, and of value, doubtless, though he knew little about 
such things. The faint scent of roses that clung about 
Madame von Waldorf’s possessions greeted him now ; but 
he perceived it for once without offence. The perfume, 
the necklace, seemed to him a rich suggestion of three 
hundred a year hanging, possibly hanging, should he care 
to grasp it, within his reach. He replaced the necklace, 
retied the ribbon, and set himself to consider seriously. 

Mr. Holland was not fatuous ; but the extraordinary 
hold that a popular clergyman has upon the enthusiasms 
and sympathies of women is a factor in his life that the 
least fatuous of men can hardly ignore. The Vicar of 
Thornton Briars, as a prudent man, had behaved in his 
parish with unimpeachable discretion. But without giv- 
ing the matter much consideration, he concluded he should 
have no very great difficulty, if he really desired it, in win- 
ning the afection of a young girl like Elisabeth Ver- 
rinder. His meditations lay all on the other side ; would 
Miss Verrinder make him a suitable wife ? On the whole, 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


158 

he concluded, there was no reason why she should not. 
She was a good, honest, religious-minded girl ; that he had 
no difficulty in perceiving ; ignorant, probably, a little 
heedless, certainly ; but no great harm in that. She was 
young, and would improve, especially under his care and 
guidance. He would instruct her, he would form her ; 
the probably blank page of her experience would suit him 
better than the settled opinions of an older woman, which 
might possibly come into collision with his own. Mr. 
Holland had thought differently on the occasion of his 
former engagement, his proposed wife having been a few 
years older than himself ; but to shift a point of view to 
meet altered circumstances is not always an inexcusable 
vagary of the human mind ; and Mr. Holland might cer- 
tainly have held himself justified had he been actively con- 
scious of this change of front. As a fact, he- was not ; it 
simply occurred to him that there was a particular charm 
about a young girl with three hundred a year, whose ig- 
norance of life would leave her plastic to any moulding. 
That he was just double her age did not affect the matter 
in his mind ; at six-and-thirty he could not consider him- 
self old ; there need be no question of incompatibility on 
that score. No, on the whole, Mr. Holland concluded, he 
could not well do better. A certain risk must attend 
every marriage ; but as few, it seemed to him, waited on 
such a marriage as this as could be expected by imperfect 
humanity. He would no longer be alone ; he would have 
a companion when he was depressed, a nurse when he was 

sick, a waiting-maid to keep his things in order Mr. 

Holland did not express it to himself quite so crudely as 
this, but there was hardly less crudity in the matter of his 
thoughts. Above all, the three hundred a year cleared 
the prospect before him so immensely, that with such a 
recommendation almost any wife might have been an ac- 
ceptable appendage. He himself would have said quite 
openly that he could not afford to marry a wife without 
money ; the rewards bestowed by the Church on its ser- 
vants were not sufficiently liberal to warrant it. The sen- 
timent may seem a mercenary one for a clergyman ; but 
Mr. Holland, having made up his mind not to marry un- 
less he could find a wife with a fortune, would have been 
profoundly surprised had this somewhat nude resolution 
been treated as anything but the result of the most ob- 
vious prudence. The resolution, in fact, had much to 
recommend it ; it was perhaps simply its nudity that made 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


159 


it seem a trifle objectionable. A man of finer fibre might 
have draped it with some reserves, have admitted the pos- 
sibility in certain cases of consideration of sentiment out- 
weighing those of income. Mr. Holland admitted none 
of these subtleties ; he had the habit of looking the situa- 
tion in the face. He would not have married a bad or 
irreligious woman, whatever her fortune might be ; but 
beyond this, he had no reserve whatever. It would be ac- 
ceptable to him to have a larger income ; if it came in his 
way, he would take it if he could. It is perhaps to his 
credit that it had come in his way, and that it had not oc- 
curred to him definitively to take it until that moment, big 
with fate, when his eyes had met Elisabeth’s, and the 
words She will have three hundred a year” had crossed 
the pages of his sermon. As the words came into his 
mind once more, he looked again at the packet beside him 
on the table. No, on the whole, he decided, he could not 
do better. Three hundred ayear with an inexpensive wife — 
a clergyman’s wife had no right to be expensive ; twenty 
or thirty pounds a year for dress and pocket-money should 
certainly suffice for her personal needs — would, in addi- 
tion to his present income, set everything on an easy foot- 
ing. Decidedly, he could not do better. 

The above reflections passed with a certain listlessness 
through Mr. Holland’s mind as he sat reclined in his arm- 
chair. The sad indilference which is the trail physical 
weakness is apt to leave on all the interests of life opposed 
itself just then to any very keen sentiment of any kind. 
The odious nature of these reflections, in which he, a 
sickly, and possibly — should ill-health in the future com- 
pel him to resign his living — a needy man, proposed to 
appropriate to his own benefit at once the fortune and the 
fresh affection of a young and ignorant girl, could never 
have been made apparent to him. A man’s conscience 
may become the most fallacious of guides ; once let him 
convince himself it is infallible, and no calculation can 
foresee the singular and tortuous paths along which it 
may lead him. Finally, it is the conscience that lags 
behind, and the most conscientious of men may exhibit 
himself as the most unscrupulous. For years Mr. Hol- 
land’s conscience had assured him of unwavering rectitude 
of purpose. He acted constantly on what he held to be 
high principle ; he was aware, as he would himself have 
said, of the weak points in his spiritual armor, and strength- 
ened them as a Christian should. The very fact that in a 


i6o 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


moment of youthful passion he had committed an action 
that had set him actually within reach of the law, and 
might have blasted his prospects for life, had added to his 
sense of mental security. It had been a huge moral shock 
to him ; it had driven him terror-stricken to repentance ; 
but that passage of profound humility had cleared him, so 
to speak, for the remainder of his life. He had almost 
forgotten his error, but that moral effect remained. He 
had been purified by a great repentance, he had come out 
a new man ; and the depths of self-deception, common to 
every son of Adam, and concerning which he had preached 
more than one excellent sermon, remained unsuspected in 
his own case. To make him see his present conduct in its 
true light would have been as impossible as to make him 
see his face in a mirror set in a darkened room. It was 
not altogether his fault if he had learnt to regard the posi- 
tion of mistress of the vicarage of Thornton Briars as one 
of the most desirable that the great lottery of life offers 
among its prizes. A dozen women, old and young, 
scattered about his parish, had helped him to that opinion. 
But thinking of Elisabeth in her room up-stairs, ignorant 
of the true prizes of life as the bird who flutters into a net 
in pursuit of some inconsiderable moth or butterfly, the 
man who sat spreading the snare for her unsuspecting 
little feet cannot, perhaps, readily be forgiven. Elisabeth, 
I say, was in her room ; she had fled thither immediately 
after dinner as to her happiest refuge. The stove had 
been lighted. It gave out warmth, but no cheering bright- 
ness ; and to-day there would be no western sun to decline 
and redden behind the hills. The first snow of the season 
was falling steadily. Roofs and towers and far-stretching 
plain were all whitening beneath the white shifting veil ; 
already the small panes of her dormer window were being 
blocked and darkened by the soft incessant drift ; it was 
the first touch of the Schlos^berg winter. Elisabeth 
opened the iron door of her stove and threw in some fresh 
wood, which sent up leaping, crackling flames that bright- 
ened the darkness of the winter afternoon. The girl knelt 
for a moment before the fire, spreading out her hands to 
the blaze ; then springing up, began pacing up and down 
the room. An immense restlessness possessed her. The 
afternoon lay vacant of occupation ; there would be no 
second service to-day ; and a few weeks earlier Elisabeth 
would have rejoiced in the sense of leisure, in the freedom 
secured her by her lonely attic, in that vast show . and 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH i6i 

spectacle of winter unrolling itself beneath her eyes as she 
stood gazing out from her warm interior. Alas ! that 
high-set chamber was grown little better than a prison ; 
the freedom she had prized was gone ; she felt stifled, 
crushed between tlic sloping walls. She opened her door 
and listened ; all the big house seemed wrapped in the 
quiet of a Sunday after-dinner siesta ; the stillness weighed 
upon her like a suffocating pillow. She wanted move- 
ment, she wanted excitement to meet and satisfy this ter- 
rible unrest that was like an aching tliirst within her. She 
went back into her room, and took up one after the other, 
the books that lay upon lier table ; she laid them all down 
again ; they were her favorite books ; there was not one 
she cared to open even. She would go down to the salon, 
she thought, and see if there were anything still left un- 
read in Frau Werner's bookcase. Anything to pass the 
long hours of the afternoon. But for the snow she would 
have put on her hat and gone for a walk, heedless of the 
reproof from Mrs. Sparrow that miglit await her return ; 
but the snow made it impossible to leave the house. 

On her way down-stairs she passed the door of Mr. Hol- 
land’s room, which opened at the head of the staircase on 
the second floor. The handle turned at the moment of 
her passing, and Mr. Holland came out. Elisabeth, with 
an impulse for which she could have given no reason, fled 
shyly and precipitately down the stairs, never pausing till 
she was witliin the salon. Mr. Holland, on tlie contrary, 
seeing Elisabeth, stood still for a moment, with his hand 
on the lock of the door. He had been on liis way to visit 
Mr. Sparrow, whose apartment was at the end of the long 
corridor on which his own room opened ; but this passing 
vision of a flying Elisabeth diverted him from his first 
purpose. He went back into his room, took from the 
table the packet entrusted to him by Madame Von Wal- 
dorf, and with his slow step followed the girl down-stairs. 

Elisabeth had found the salon empty, and its appear- 
ance hardly more engaging than that of her own room. 
The bookcase was locked, and the key, as she immediately 
remembered on trying the glass door, hopelessly buried in 
the pocket of Mrs. Sparrow’s Sunday gown; the tables, 
cleared of all profane literature, were strewn and decorated 
with such pamphlets and pictured tracts as appeared to that 
worthy woman most likely to propagate those particular 
dogmas of which she held herself one of the chosen guard- 
ians. Elisabeth had seen them all before ; she would not 

II 


i 62 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


even look at them now. But she did not go up-stairs again at 
once ; here, at any rate, was wider space, a larger sense of 
liberty ; something might pass, sometliing might happen. 
Nothing could happen up-stairs, unless Mary Sparrow 
came to invite her to listen to a sermon in her mother’s 
room. As the thought passed through iier mind, Elisa- 
beth’s heart gave an immense throb ; she had recognized 
the uncertain, shambling step she would have known among 
a thousand. She turned round and faced Mr. Holland. 

The occasion was not without its emotional side for 
the clergyman also. Since seeing Elisabeth, some three 
hours before he had come to a momentous decision : he 
proposed, sooner or later, to ask tlie young girl to be his 
wife. Mr. Holland was a man, not a machine, in spite of 
the springs of self-interest that formed so large a part of 
his motive power ; in spite of listlessness, indifference, 
and ill-health. He looked down on the young face that 
blushed and grew pale, and blushed again ; at the brown 
eyes raised to his for a moment as in some mute appeal, 
and a sense of great kindness filled his heart. He was 
touched by the charm of youthfulness, and of that guileless 
ignorance by which he proposed to profit, in the young 
creature before him. He glanced round the cold-looking, 
rather sordid pension salon, with its dingy red Utrecht 
velvet chairs and sofas, its china stove, and the white 
muslin curtains that seemed to give an added cliill to the 
white world outside, and a feeling of bien~Hre stole over 
him, a faint glow, the nearest approach to sentiment his 
chilled heart could know. He looked at Elisabeth witli 
great kindness. 

‘‘Well, so here is winter at last,” he said, going up to 
the stove, and spreading out his hands to the radiating 
warmth. “There’s something very cheerless, though, 
about these stoves ; don’t you think so ? They warm the 
rooms, no doubt, but I miss the cheerful blaze of my own 
fireside. It makes one feel one’s self an exile ; one can’t 
forget one is away from home ; and that is always rather 
sad, you know.” 

He drew forward an armchair as he spoke, and, sitting 
down, stretched out his legs toward the unresponsive 
stove. Elisab'eth, who had been listening with extreme 
attention and sympathy to these remarks, that seemed to 
place her in a singularly intimate relation with Mr. Hol- 
land’s inmost sentiments, started into action. 

“Up-stairs, in my own room,” she said diffidently, “I 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


163 


open the door of the stove, and it makes a little square 
blaze. It's not much, but it is better than nothing. I 
don’t like the stoves either.” 

“Weil, now, that is a good idea,” said the clergyman ; 
“suppose we try it here.” He thr^w back the little iron 
door. “Ah,” he said, “the wood is all burnt to ashes ; 
I’m afraid there is no hope of your cheerful blaze. Miss 
Verrinder, even if we put some fresh wood in.” 

“Oh, I can make it burn,” said Elisabeth, eagerly ; “I’ll 
run and ask Kathchen for some splinters and matches. It 
won’t take a minute.” 

She disappeared, and returned in a moment with an 
armful of paper and shavings. Mr. Holland’s eyes rested 
on her with increasing pleasure and approbation as, kneel- 
ing in front of the stove, she arranged paper and wood 
and applied a match. Notwithstanding her extreme shy- 
ness, there was noth lu g gauHie about Elisabeth ; her move- 
ments had a natural grace, of which no amount of mental 
awkwardness could rob her ; her dark-blue woollen frock, 
ill-cut though it was, did little injustice to her slender 
girlish figure, and its color suited the delicate fairness of 
her cheeks, and tlie rough wavy masses of brown hair on 
which the leaping dame threw ruddy lights as she knelt 
with her head half thrust inside the opening of the stove. 
She stood up at last, dushed and smiling a little in triumph, 
rubbing lier dusty and blackened fingers against the skirt 
of her dress, an action that perhaps justified Mrs. Ver- 
rinder’s small expenditure on her niece’s schoolgirl ward- 
robe. Mr. Holland looked at her attentively, smoothing 
down his grizzled mustache and beard with his left fore- 
finger. 

“That is famous,” he said; “that is something like a 
fire ! I have seen nothing so cheerful as that since I came 
to Schlossberg. Sit down,” he went on, with an accent 
both kindly and peremptory, stretching out his arm and 
drawing forward a chair ; “ I should like to have a little 
talk with yon.” 

Elisabetli sat down as desired. Her heart was beating, 
but her restlessness was gone. A sense of great happiness 
was in its place. 

“I was pleased to see,” Mr. Holland continued, smiling 
at her, after a moment’s pause, “whnt an attentive listener 
I had this morning.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Elisabeth, reddening and nervously twisting 
and untwisting her fingers. 


164 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


^‘You don’t know,” the clergyman went on in his slow, 
deliberate tones, ‘‘ what pleasure it gives one to feel that 
one’s words are not being lost — that listeners are repaying 
in attention the trouble thei»* pastor is taking to instruct 
and enlighten them.” 

“ I — I couldn’t help listening,” said Elisabeth in confu- 
sion. “ I never heard anyone,” she went on hurriedly, “ say 
just sucli things as you did. They made me — they made 
me feel ” 

“Well? Don’t be afraid, my dear,” said Mr. Holland, 
kindly. “ Look on me as your pastor for the time being ; 
you were one of my flock, you know, this morning. Per- 
haps,” he went on, as Elisabeth did not speak, “they made 
you feel that you would like to be good, and that you find 
it rather hard work?” Elisabeth looked up gratefully. 
“Yes, yes ; that is what we all find,” he continued, leaning 
forward a little, spreading out his hands to the blaze. “We 
none of us find it easy to be good ; to become so is the 
business of our lives, you know. But we each of us have 
our special difficulties ; tiiat is what you find, I dare say.” 

“Yes,” said Elisabeth, turning away her head. 

“Well, supposing we talk over these difficulties together, 
and see if nothing can be done to remove them. Not 
now, though,” he said, as someone opened the door, looked 
in, and retreated ; “ we should be interrupted ; besides, I 
must go and see Mr. Sparrow. We will find another op- 
portunity ; and, meanwhile, don’t distress yourself, my 
dear ; don’t distress yourself.” He rose as he spoke. 
Elisabeth rose also. “ There is one thing more, my dear, 

I had to say to you,” he continued, feeling in the deep 
pocket of his coat. “Ah, here it is.” He took out the 
packet containing the necklace. “A circumstance,” he 
said, “ has come to my knowledge that has occasioned me 
real distress.” 

Elisabeth’s eyes widened. She could not imagine what 
was coming. The clergyman perceived her alarm. 

“There is nothing that need distress my dear young 
lady,” he said, with increased kindness ; “but it has come 
to my knowledge that, prompted, I fear — very needlessly 
prompted — by some words of mine, you parted with a 
necklace in order to settle that little money matter that lay 
between us. It was needless, my dear Miss Elisabeth ; it 
was altogether needless.” 

“ Oh, but I had rather — I wanted to ” said Elisabeth, 

with some incoherence. “ I didn’t mean you to know ; I 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 165 

can’t think how you liave found out — I could not bear for 
you to think me not honest.” 

‘‘Well, well,” said Mr. Holland, smiling, “and I could 
not bear, my dear, that you should be deprived of your 
necklace. It has come into my hands, you see. It gives 
me pleasure to restore it to its lawful owner.” 

He placed the packet in Elisabeth's hand. She gazed 
at him for a moment in blank astonishment. 

“ My necklace ! ” she said at last. She took off the 
paper wrapper : the necklace lay in its case. A sob rose 
choking in her throat ; she had not known before what 
it was to be deprived of her mother’s last gift. “ How 
good — how good of you ! ” she said at last, raising her 
eyes to Mr. Holland’s face. “ Oh, you are so good, I don’t 
know how to thank you ! Only I oughtn’t to take it, 
ought I ? I shall owe you the money still.” 

“ No, no ; that is all settled,” said Mr. Holland quickly. 
“ It is all settled,” he repeated, laying his hand kindly on 
the girl’s shoulder; “and you will do me a favor by not 
alluding to the subject again. Keep your necklace, my 
dear, and take better care of it in the future.” 

He held out his hand with a kind smile, and passed out 
of the room as Mary Sparrow entered it. 

“ Mamma says — how odd you look, Elisabeth ! ” said 
Miss Sparrow, staring at her with round eyes, “You 
have been scorching your face at the stove. Mamma 
never lets me scorch my face. Mamma says, Elisabeth, 
she is going to read a sermon aloud in my room, and she 
hopes you will join us, as there is no service down-stairs 
this afternoon. Mamma says she fears you care very lit- 
tle for the privileges of the Sabbath, Elisabeth ; but she 
hopes you will not think of wasting all these precious 
hours in mere frivolity. Please come at once, Elisabeth. 
I have been looking for you everywhere.” 

Somewhat to Miss Sparrow’s surprise, Elisabeth followed 
her without a word of remonstrance. On their way up- 
stairs they passed Mr. Holland on his slow progress to- 
ward Mr. Sparrow’s room ; he was pausing half-way up 
with his hand on the banistertogain breath. An immense 
and gentle pity mingled itself with the reverence in Elisa- 
beth’s heart as she saw him. She paused a second, long- 
ing to offer him her arm ; but diffidence held her back, 
and she passed on with Mary. 

As for Mr Holland, he reached his brother clergyman’s 
room not ill satisfied with his afternoon’s work. He had 


i66 


THE TAEL C/EE OF ELISABETH 


said no more to Elisabeth than lie had had occasion to say 
a hundred times before in the exercise of his pastoral 
office ; long experience had made every flutter of her lit- 
tle inexperienced heart legible to him, so far, as an open 
book. Only that golden prize he had set on his horizon 
had vitiated the whole situation in giving it a new color. 

But the horror of the situation so vitiated could never 
have been made apparent to him for a moment. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE BARONESS MAKES A WEDDING PRESENT. 

“ My dear Emilia,” Baroness von Leu wine wrote, some six 
weeks later — “ What is this I hear ? The news is incredible 
— quite incredible. Unfortunately I belieye it, I believe the 
earth goes round the sun, and that a young girl is the most 
incomprehensible of God’s creatures. Yes, the most in- 
comprehensible ; I repeat it to myself, to excuse in some 
degree my own extraordinary blindness and stupidity. 
Forgive myself I never shall. After all the experience I 
have had with dozens of girls, not to have had my eyes 
opened to the situation before I left Schlossberg ! It is a 
fact, my dear Emilia, that on the last, almost the last occa- 
sion that Elisabeth Verrinder sat to me, a day or two be- 
fore I left your house, I saw lier silly little head had let 
itself be turned by some foolish fancy : she had the air of 
walking above the clouds, in an atmosphere too fine for 
common use, that a girl assumes on such an occasion. 
My suspicions fixed themselves for a moment upon Gor- 
don ; iC never occurred to me — and how, after all, should 
it occur to me ? — that your brother had anything to say 
in the matter. Afterward that affair of the necklace 
drove it out of my head. But when I reflect tliat it was I 
who refrained from setting the whole transaction before 
her in its true light, for fear of destroying her illusions, I 
asked myself what, after all, is the use of being fifty-six 
years of age, and of having had twenty years’ experience 
of the extraordinary capacity for folly in young girls ? 
But I have had my lesson. Never a girl among them but 
shall have her illusions destroyed without pity by me 
henceforward. As regards Elisabeth, it is now too late. 
To give her my real opinion of Robert Holland, now that 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


167 


she has engaged herself to marry him, would be worse 
than useless ; she would not believe me, and I should only 
alienate such affection for me as she has. I shall write to 
her, indeed : I shall say what I can — and I shall say it 
strongly — to put a stop to this preposterous marriage ; but 
I must choose my ground with care. You, my dear Emilia, 
who are on the spot, can perhaps do and say more ; you 
will oblige me greatly, my dear child, by using all your 
influence to prevent what, I own, appears to me horrible. 
Of what use is it to mince matters ? Your brother, a mid- 
dle-aged and broken-down man, has heard of Elisabeth’s 
poor little fortune, and he has used the influence that any- 
one in a priestly guise so readily acquires over these young 
creatures to induce an inexperienced girl, hardly yet out 
of the school-room, to sacrifice herself as his wife. Now 
that the thing is done, I can see how it all came about as 
plainly as if I had arranged every step of the affair my- 
self. The transat.ion, I repeat, is horrible. What a life 
lies before the poor child ! You have the habit, I am 
aware, Emilia, of defending your half-brother. I have 
nothing to say against it ; a certain amount of decent veil- 
ing drawn over the crudities of one’s relations’ faults is 
both seemly and convenient in the intercourse of life. 
But there are times, after all, when facts have to be faced. 
Your brother (apart from his ill health, which will reduce 
his wife at once to the position of a garde-7nalade) has not 
a single quality calculated to render a young girl like 
Elisabeth Verrinder happy. He is narrow-minded; he is 
— forgive the word ; it is not from your side of the family 
he inherits it — he is common-minded. The term is suffi- 
ciently comprehensive, I suppose ; you know your brother, 
and I do not need to illustrate it. Elisabeth Verrinder is 
very childish for her years ; anyone can see that at a glance ; 
but it is simply because her aunt has insisted on treating 
her like a child of six years old. For she is of extreme 
intelligence ; her tastes are both refined and intellectual — 
too intellectual for so young a girl ; she has been thrown 
in upon herself, and needs an atmosphere of young and 
careless happiness in which to expand— and to end with, 
she is, poor child, an idealist, and of morbid sensibility. 
Imagine a nature such as this in constant contact with a 
man like Robert Holland. You will say that I exagger- 
ate ; I emphasize, perhaps. Elisabeth has faults, of course ; 
more, probably, than lam aware of ; your brother may 
have — indeed, doubtless has — virtues. Nevertheless, every 


i68 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


word I have written is true ; the main lines are correct in 
every particular. Should the marriage take place, one of 
two things, taking Elisabeth’s youth into consideration, 
will happen : either — which Heaven forbid — her mind will 
narrow^ itself to fit his, or she will find herself in opposi- 
tion to him on every important question in life. Eitlier 
result will be disastrous. 

“ Has Gordon started t I heard from him about a fort- 
night ago. He reported well of his father, and spoke of 
your kindness, my dear Emilia, in terms that show what 
he feels about it.” 

To this Madame von Waldorf made reply : 

It did not need your letter, dear Aunt Irma, to con- 
vince me of the extreme unsuitableness of the proposed 
marriage between my brother and Elisabeth Verrinder. 
The news of it was a shock to me. I did not, I could not 
pretend to congratulate him ; for though I venture to 
have a better opinion of him than you entertain, and 
though Miss Verrinder is less sympathetic to me than she 
is to you, still, the difference of age, Robert’s ill-health, 
and the possibility that other people may attribute to him 
the fortune-hunting motive you mention, make the whole 
thing more distasteful to me than I can say. I was about 
to write to you last night when your letter came. You do 
not say from whom you heard the news. Possibly from 
Frau Werner, or perhaps even from Mrs. Sparrow ; one 
knows the chatter that goes on in those little bourgeois pen- 
sions ; it was very probably a matter of common talk be- 
fore Robert himself came round to tell me of his engage- 
ment. You may not, however, have heard, since you do 
not mention it, that before proposing to Miss Verrinder 
my brother wrote for permission to do so to her uncle and 
aunt. I don’t know whether this will make you think bet- 
ter of him ; I have given up trying to make you think 
better of Robert ! But, personally, I am gratified that he 
should have acted with so much propriety. Unfortunately 
— from your point of view and from mine — Colonel and 
Mrs. Verrinder, having made, I presume, the needful in- 
quiries, offer no objection whatever to their niece’s mar- 
riage. Mrs. Verrinder, I imagine, has no particular affec- 
tion for Elisabeth, and is not sorry to be rid of her ; and her 
husband I further imagine to be a good natured and weak- 
headed man, a good deal ruled by his wife. This I gathered 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


169 


in a conversation with Elisabeth, who seems to have a 
great affection for her uncle, but not to rely upon him in 
the least. She refers always to her aunt as the final ruler 
of her destinies. Her aunt, then, has given her consent, 
only making the stipulation, an odd one enough under 
the circumstances, that Elisabeth is to go through another 
six months’ course of study here. I don’t mean the stip- 
ulation is not sensible, but it is odd. Six months of society 
would have been more to the purpose, one would think. 
However, the marriage will not take place till the expira- 
tion of the six months, at any rate. 

may tell you at once that I had forestalled your wish 
that I should speak to Elisabeth. I did, indeed, what you 
say your wise young Emilia (as you are pleased to call me) 
never does : I acted on impulse. I went to her immedi- 
ately on hearing the news. I am not altogether blind, 
dear Aunt Irma ; it is perhaps because I see Robert’s de- 
fects sufficiently plainly that I always feel impelled to de- 
fend him. He is rny father’s son, but it would be vain for 
me to pretend that he resembles my father. I will hot say 
he has the faults of his mother’s class, since, certainly, no 
class has a monopoly of either faults or virtues ; I will 
only say he has not inherited certain traditions. Elisa- 
beth Verrinder’s curious shyness has made it difficult for 
me to get on with her. She is afraid of me, I believe ; but it 
is easy to perceive she has great refinement of nature ; and 
I felt convinced, from what Robert said, that she was acting 
in one of those moments of blind infatuation that may en- 
tangle a young girl’s entire life. As Robert’s sister I felt a 
certain responsibility. It may be — yes, I fear it must be 
— her fortune, small as it is, tliat has attracted him. I 
know he has always felt strongly the inequality between 
his fortune and ours ; it has embittered our whole rela- 
tions with him. But you may judge whether I found it 
a pleasant task to go and try to enlighten Elisabeth as to 
the defects of the man she is engaged to marry, and who 
happens to be my brother. If I had not acted on impulse, 
I might not have had the courage to act at all ; or per- 
haps, indeed, I miglit have acted with more discretion ; as 
it is, I feel disposed to regret it. I feel guilty of a want 
of generosity toward Robert; and the interview, as might 
have been expected, had no result whatever. Elisabeth 
did not believe a word I said (I seem, to myself, to have 
said the most unpardonable things) ; I could only kiss her 
at the end as an apology for having made myself so dis- 


170 


THE FAIL [/EE OF ELISABETH 


agreeable. I think she will forgive me, for I doubt if my 
words made sufficient impression on her ever to come into 
her head again. 

Gordon has not yet started. Some delay has occurred 

through the action of a rich Mr. , I forget his name, 

but a rich Englishman, in short, who proposes to share 
with the society the expenses of the expedition, on condi- 
tion of being allowed to join it. His preparations are not 
concluded, hence the present delay ; but in a week or two 
Gordon will be leaving Schlossberg. He is alternately 
charming with me, and plunged in gloom. If you are 
writing to him, dear Aunt Irma, I wish you would induce 
him — persuade him to believe, not only that under the 
circumstances it is the most reasonable and natural thing 
in the world that my uncle should be with me, but that it 
also gives me the liveliest pleasure. It would reconcile 
one to growing old, if one could hope for an old age so 
beautiful and harmonious as his. He lives in your studio 
and the adjoining room, which have so changed their as- 
pect you would not know them. Gordon has found an 
excellent attendant for him ; he ought to be happy about 
it all. Persuade him to be happy. It is one of his faults 
— I often tell him so — that he is incapable of reasoning 
justly outside his own idea of things. 

“ Ida insists on sending three blots at the end of my let- 
ter by way of kisses. She has made them with the great- 
est care, and their blackness represents, I suppose, the 
depth of her affection. 

Your affectionate Emilia.*' 

The interview to which Madame von Waldorf alluded 
had taken place with no great result, certainly, so far as 
Elisabeth was concerned. It was in the afternoon of the 
day next but one following her engagement to Mr. Hol- 
land, and her immeasurable felicity was not yet forty-eight 
hours old. She had gone down to the salon to fetch a 
book, and was passing through the hall on her way up- 
stairs again, when Mr. Holland, entering by the front door, 
overtook her; and drawing her with a smile, but without 
speaking, into Frau Werner’s room, which happened to be 
empty, took from a little box in his pocket a gold engage- 
ment ring, and fitted it on her finger. It was one of those 
plain betrothal rings so common in Germany, formed by 
two hands that meet and clasp as an earnest of the unend- 
ing bliss about to begin ; and Elisabeth, looking on this 


V 


THE FATLURR OF ELISABETH 


token of eternal union, found its symbolism so exquisite 
that no diamond, or pearl, or ruby, emblem of the riches 
of a lover’s love, could have afforded her such large con- 
tent. She looked down on it in silence for a moment, then 
raised her eyes to Mr. Holland’s face. She did not smile 
or blush ; the moment had a sacredness for her beyond 
such trivial signs of emotion ; but her eyes gave a pledge 
that corresponded with the token on her hand. The next 
moment, witii an abrupt movement, she brushed past the 
clergyman, and fled up the stairs to her own room. 

She entered her room, that dusky refuge for the com- 
plex emotions of her life, and bolted the door behind her. 
A western sunbeam was. slanting athwart the dusk, travel- 
ling up the long slope of the dimly papered walls. Elisa- 
beth laid down her book, and went up to the window to 
look at herring again by the clear light. She stood there 
for a long while, not thinking, rapt in an ecstasy too large 
and vague for thought. The far-extending plain, the vast 
over-spreading heaven, the infinite suggestions of the de- 
clining day, were all too narrow — they had seemed so wide 
before — for the sense of rapture that filled her heart. She 
did not care to think — no more than a spirit newly entered 
int(3 Paradise might care at once to give itself up to study- 
ing the details of the scenery of its new abode. 

A knock at the door startled her. “ Come in,” she cried ; 
then, remembering that the door was bolted, she crossed 
the room to open it. It opened to admit Emilia von 
Waldorf. 

Madame von Waldorf, on hearing that Elisabeth was at 
home, had debated a moment whether to ask for an inter- 
view in Frau Werner’s little parlor, or to seek the girl in 
her room up-stairs; she decided on the latter, as leaving 
them less open to interruption. Emilia, as she subse- 
quently wrote to the Baroness, was acting on impulse ; 
and she was willing to let the impulse carry her where it 
would. It carried her now up six flights of stairs to Elisa- 
beth’s room ; but she paused again at the door before 
knocking, feeling strangely, unaccountably nervous. She 
had not in the least decided what she was going to say ; 
she only knew that her whole being was in revolt against 
her brother’s proposed marriage ; and revolt was so rare in 
Emilia’s serene and tranquil nature that she hardly knew 
how to deal with it. She knocked at last ; but when the 
door was opened she still hesitated a moment on the 
threshold. Elisabeth, dragged suddenly from heights of 


172 


THE FAILCRE OF ELISABETH. 


empyrean blue, stood tliere blinking her eyes for a moment, 
looking a little dazed. Madame von Waldorf held out her 
hand. 

“ May I come in ?” she said. 

Oh, please come in,” said Elisabeth, shyly, drawing 
back that her visitor might enter. “ I beg your pardon ; I 
didn’t know who it was at first.” Madame von Waldorf, 
as Elisabeth was aware, had never before paid her a visit ; 
and it came over her strangely — she had not thought of it 
before — that she would be placed in new and possibly inti- 
mate relations with this charming and gracious woman, 
with whom she had yet never been able to fe('l herself alto- 
gether at ease. Madame von Waldorf turned to her again. 

I feel as if I were an intruder,” she said apologetically ; 
“you would have preferred, perhaps, to see me down- 
stairs. But I thought it probable that we might Ibe quieter 
here.” 

“ Oh, yes, thank you, it is very kind of you,” said Elisa- 
beth, confusedly. She crossed the room as she spoke, 
and drew forward an armchair set in the recess of the 
window. “Won’t you si^ jvvn?” she said. “This is the 
best chair, I think ; the c .airs are not very nice.” 

“Thank you,” said Emilia. She stood looking at the 
chair for a moment, as if she did not quite know what she 
was about ; then sitting down, began to loosen the furs 
about her throat. The sunset, illuminating her face, 
showed it to be both serious and agitated ; there was 
hardly a trace of the sweet and open smile that gave a 
varying charm to her countenance ; she was nervous, in 
short, a nervousness that displayed itself in singular con- 
trast with her usual unruffled demeanor. 

“ Miss Verrindcr ” she began and stopped ; she did 

not know what to say. She wanted to warn, to expostu- 
late ; that was the impulse that had brought her ; but it 
was, she felt, tlie most difficult, the most invidious task 
she had ever set herself to accomplish. “I had a visit 
from my brother to-day,” she said at last. “It will not, I 
dare say, surprise you to know that he talked a great deal 
about you.” 

“Oh, did he?” said Elisabeth, rather wistfully. It 
seemed to her probable that Mr. Holland had been apolo- 
gizing to his sister for his choice of a wife so insignificant 
as herself. Madame von Waldorf looked at her with a feel- 
ing she had occasionally had before, that she did not alto- 
gether understand Elisabeth ; she felt terribly embarrassed. 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


173 


When she spoke again, her words, for the first time in her 
life, perhaps came with an abrupt awkwardness. 

‘‘Of course — he told me, of course,” she said, “of your 
engagement. It took me by surprise, I own ; it distressed 
me ” 


The blood rushed to Elisabeth’s cheeks. “ Oh !” she 
cried, turning away her head. Emilia divined her feeling 
this time in a moment, perceiving in the same moment 
how ill-chosen her own words had been. She recovered 
herself at once. 

“ Forgive me,” she said with great sweetness, leaning 
forward, and taking Elisabeth’s hands in hers. “ I ex- 
pressed myself badly ; it was not of my brother that I was 
thinking, it was of you. It is on your account, my dear 

child, that the news distressed me ” She hesitated 

again, then went on in a sort of hurry : “I feel strongly 
in the matter. You must forgive me if, in fact, I say any- 
thing to pain you, but you are a child as yet.” 

“ I am not really a child,” said Elisabeth, flushing a 
little with a dawning sense of defiance. “ I am nearly 
eigliteen.” >b 3, 

“You are a child in experiencUj^^’ said Madame von Wal- 
dorf ; “ it cannot be otherwise. At your age, and in your 
position, a young girl can know nothing of life. You are 

going to marry a man of whom you know but little ” 

“ Oh !” cried Elisabeth again, and disengaging her hands 
from Emilia’s. 

“ Indeed, you know but little of my brother,” said 
Emilia, with extreme and gentle earnestness. “A man 
twice your age, in broken health, of comparatively limited 

means, and uncertain prospects ” 

“ I like all that,” said Elisabeth, with averted face. 

“Yes, that is understood,” said Madame von Waldorf, 
with difficulty. “You will think me, you must think me, 
very unnatural in saying all this,” she went on in a moment. 
“ Naturally, I ought to rejoice in my brother having gained 
a fresh and pure affection like your own. But I cannot, I 
cannot rid myself of a certain sense of responsibility. You 
were sent out here to finish your studies, and my brother 
has taken — advantage lias been taken of your youth and 
inexperience to bind y<3u with obligations where you ought 
to have been left altogether free.” 

She paused once more. Elisabeth, breathing a little 
quickly, but still with averted face, stood silent. In a mo- 
ment Madame vou Waldorf began again. 


174 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


^‘Robert,” she said, speaking as before with a certain diffi- 
culty — but Elisabeth’s silence drew her on — “ has doubtless 
many good, many excellent qualities. 1 believe him to be 
devout, earnest, and single-minded in his desire to influ- 
ence others for good. But he has faults like every other 
man who ever lived. It is his excuse that he has had in 
some ways a hard life ; he has resented his narrow for- 
tunes ; he thinks a good deal— a good deal about money, 
and ” 

‘^No!” cried Elisabeth, with violence; he does not! 
You mustn’t say such things; he does not! He has no 
faults ; if he had any, I should not want to hear about 
them. But I know him better than you do ; he has 
none ! ” 

She turned from Madame von Waldorf, and stood with 
her folded arms resting against the wall of the little re- 
cessed window, her face hidden against her arms. Emilia 
sat motionless, and a little pale for a moment ; then rising, 
laid her hand on the girl’s shoulder. 

Elisabeth,” she said, “ I should like you to believe how 
greatly I desire that we should become friends.” 

Not if you say such things as those,” said Elisabeth, 
without moving. 

“Well, I will not say them again,” said Madame von 
Waldorf, after a moment’s consideration. “ In any case, 
it is useless, I feel.” She felt it indeed ; the part she had 
been playing was odious to her. Whatever happened, she 
could do no more ; evidently, too, she had managed mat- 
ters as badly as possible. “ I will ask nothing of you now,” 
she said, “but to believe that I shall welcome you as a sis- 
ter.” She touched the girl’s hair gently. “You will be- 
lieve that, Elisabeth, will you not ? ” 

Elisabeth’s arms slowly dropped to her side. There was 
not a particle of sullenness in her nature ; and never did 
nature respond more instantly to the least word or act of 
kindness. The color rushed again to her cheeks as she 
turned her face to Emilia. The reaction to her usual shy 
reserve was instantaneous ; already it seemed incredible to 
herself that she should have spoken to Madame von Wal- 
dorf with such a passion of violence ; she felt herself hor- 
ribly in the wrong. She did not speak, but with ashamed 
movement of contrition she put out her hand. Emilia 
took it in hers ; she took her other hand also, and in doing 
so glanced down at the gold ring encircling the third finger- 
A look, undecipherable by Elisabeth, passed across her face. 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 175 

** That,” she said — ‘^that is your betrothal ring ? ” 

‘‘Yes,” said Elisabeth, shyly. 

Madame von Waldorf looked down again at the shabby 
little ring ; then, with an impulse that she afterward told 
herself had been thrice ill-judged — poor Emilia, her whole 
proceedings, she declared to herself, had been lamentably 
ill-judged; she would never act on impulse again — she 
released Elisabeth’s hands, and drawing off her glove, 
took from her finger a ring set with a single diamond of 
some value, that she wore with one or two others. 

“Will you,” she said, hesitating now a good deal, “do 
me the favor, Elisabeth, to accept this from me ? A be- 
trothal ring should have a guard, and yours, I see, is a 
little loose. This ring is of no value — none,” she went on 
quickly, as Elisabeth drew back. “ I don’t care for it, I 
mean, as a personal memento, even. It came to me with 
a number of others. Its best value for me now would be 
that you should accept it. So, that is right,” she said, 
slipping it on to Elisabeth’s finger ; “ it shall be a pledge 
that we will only remember of this conversation that has 
passed, that we promised each other to be sisters.” 

She smiled very sweetly, and kissed the girl’s cheek as 
she spoke. Elisabeth said hardly anything in answer ; 
and, indeed, Madame von Waldorf instantly changed the 
conversation. “ Tell me,” she said, fastening her furs 
about her throat and drawing on her long glove again, 
“ have you written to Madame von Leuwine ?” 

“ Not yet,” said Elisabeth, looking down and turning the 
rings on her finger. “ I haven’t had time.” 

“ Ah, I dare say you have felt that you have had no time 
at all this day or two,” said Emilia. “ But you must write 
to Aunt Irma ; it would vex her not to hear from you your- 
self. And I want you to come and dine early with Ida and 
me to-morrow. We must get to know each other better 
now than we have been able to do hitherto.” 

And it was after this second interview that Madame von 
Waldorf wrote to the Baroness. 

It was after supper on this same evening, of which the 
events have been given in some detail, that Elisabeth was 
sitting in the salon with the rest of the pension party. She 
had felt shy about going in there ; everyone had heard the 
news ; everyone had congratulated her. It had been hor- 
rible, Elisabeth said to herself. But Mr. Holland arrested 
her at the foot of the stairs, as she was about to fly up to 
her own room as usual. 


176 THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 

Well,” he said, are you not coming into the salon ?” 

“Oh, would you like me to ?” said Elisabeth, pausing 
instantly, her foot on the lower step. 

“Well, what do you think ? ” he said, smiling at her ; “ I’m 
going to sit there myself, you know.” 

“ Oh, I’ll come I ” said Elisabeth, growing scarlet ; “ but 
I’ll fetch my work first, please. I won’t be a minute.” She 
flew up the stairs as she spoke. Elisabeth, who never 
touched a needle if she could help it, felt that she could 
not very well read to-night, and that her little piece of 
much tormented embroidery would be some sort of shield 
between herself and the small pension world. Even one 
of Mrs. Sparrow’s mission blouses would have been thank- 
fully accepted ; but Mrs. Sparrow was now engaged in 
knitting comforters, and Elisabeth did not know how to 
knit. 

Mr. Holland was not in the salon when she returned ; 
he had been called away by his brother clergyman ; and 
Elisabeth, after glancing round the room in search of him, 
threaded her way to a distant sofa, making herself small 
as she went, that she might not be caught and detained by 
Mrs. Sparrow. That worthy woman, however, was much 
too discreet to advance any claims on Elisabeth to-night ; 
it was proper, of course, for a young girl in her position to 
be at liberty to devote herself to the man to whom she was 
engaged ; Mrs. Sparrow had too much correct feeling to 
interfere with that. She had received the news of Elisa- 
beth’s engagement with emotions of a mingled complex- 
ion. She treated the girl with great kindness ; indeed, 
she called her into her own room, embraced her, and ad- 
dressed her for half an hour on the duties, the responsibil- 
ities, the vicissitudes of a clergyman’s wife — a discourse 
enriched by many reminiscences from her own experience. 
Elisabeth sat dutifully patient, but with an attention that 
strayed. What connection could there be between this 
opening heaven toward which her soul was winging its 
flight and the dull and dusty path trodden by Mr. Spar- 
row’s middle-aged wife ? Mrs. Sparrow had even less suc- 
cess when she touched on the honors awaiting Elisabeth 
in her future position as wife of the vicar of Thornton 
Briars. So far, Elisabeth’s future position had not en- 
gaged the girl’s mind for a single moment ; she and Mr. 
Holland might have had a future a deux before them in a 
wilderness upholstered with rocks, and with a couple of 
ravens to relieve them of sordid cares, for all the thought 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


177 


she had given to the matter. The excellent seed Mrs. 
Sparrow was sowing fell on the most barren of soils. Not 
the less was she touched by her friend’s kindness ; and 
when that good lady embraced her at the end of her hom- 
ily, Elisabeth threw her arms round her neck, and kissed 
her and thanked her with all her heart. Mrs. Sparrow 
shook her head, however, as the girl left the room. If — 
the thought necessarily passed through her mind — if a 
beneficed clergyman had come to a German pension to 
find a young wife, how much more suitable was her own 
Mary, with her sound principles and steady, discreet ways, 
than the heedless Elisabeth ! How was it possible, Mrs. 
Sparrow demanded of the unseen and apparently unin- 
structed fates, that a girl who could not even remember to 
change her wet shoes and stockings when she came in out 
of the rain should be fit to take the entire charge of a par- 
ish ? Now Mary, under her mother’s training, would fill 
the office to admiration. Mrs. Sparrow had a brief vision 
of herself ruling at Thornton Briars, ploughing up that 
neglected spot, guiding with her counsels of perfection 
daughter and son-in-law and parisli. But the vision passed 
instantly, as she began to darn a pair of her husband’s 
socks. Such things were not for her, as she had known 
long enough, nor apparently for her daughter either. She 
had not three hundred a year of her own ; and no one in 
the world knew better than poor Mrs. Sparrow the exact 
value of three hundred a year. It only lay witiiin human 
nature, however, that she could snub the divinity student 
a little that evening. It is true that that young man had 
several exasperating ways. He invariably yawned three 
times running, five minutes after Mrs. Sparrow began the 
reading aloud with which she had the habit of improving 
the evening; and when the inevitable moment arrived 
when she was obliged to pause and remove her attention 
from her book to her knitting, he as invariably slipped 
away as quietly as if he had melted into air. A youthful 
and sympathetic titter, into which even the sage Mary was 
once betrayed by this manoeuvre, drew down upon her 
more wrath than had ever descended on her head before. 
Certainly there was a moving difference between the dig- 
nity of Elisabeth’s position and that of her daughter’s re- 
lations with a pale and snub-nosed student. Happily, 
Mary seemed to find the difference all in her own favor ; 
she never betrayed the least desire to marry Mr. Holland. 

Elisabeth, then, made her way unchallenged to a sofa in 
12 


178 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


a deserted corner of the room ; deserted because it was 
lighted by a single candle only, set on a small table where 
the little governess sat correcting her exercises as usual. 
Elisabeth sat down, and began plying her needle, breaking 
her cotton and unpicking her wrong stitches by the dim 
light. She was glad that she was not expected to join 
Mrs. Sparrow at the centre-table, but she wished Mr, Hol- 
land would come. She did not want to talk to people, yet 
she felt as if everyone were staring at her ; Miss Robbins’ 
furtive and sympathetic eye, for instance, was constantly 
upon her, she knew. An engaged young woman was, in 
fact, an object of the liveliest interest to Miss Robbins. 
She had never been quite so closely in contact with one 
before, and she brought to her contemplation the most 
cheerful curiosity. Something new and entertaining in 
connection with her might certainly be expected at any 
moment — that was only due to the spectators. Presently 
Mr. Holland did appear, with a newspaper in his hand ; 
and, crossing the room with his slow, dragging step, seated 
himself on the sofa beside Elisabeth, and began to read. 
He did not speak ; he hardly even looked at her. But in- 
stantly a great and satisfying sense of happiness and pro- 
tection filled the poor child’s heart. She forgot everyone 
else in the room ; they might stare if they pleased ; she 
had become absolutely unconscious of their gaze. The 
little governess go.t up, and with a friendly nod wished her 
good-night. Elisabeth did not even see her. She still 
plied her needle, but her stitches were set even more at 
random than before, and she forgot to unpick them. 
Presently Mr. Holland laid down his newspaper, fixed his 
gaze for a moment absently on the room before him, then 
turned to her, leaning a little across the sofa to investigate 
her work. 

“ Well,” he said, ‘‘ and what are you so busy about ?” 

Oh, nothing,” said Elisabeth, crumpling up the work in 
her hand. She was always so ashamed of her bad em- 
broidery. In a moment, however, she remembered her- 
self, and spread it out for his inspection. 

“ It’s nothing,” she said ; “ I do this sort of work so 
badly. I don’t like work.” 

‘‘Well, that’s rather a pity, isn’t it?” said Mr. Holland. 
“Work seems to me a very useful employment for young 
ladies — teaches them to keep their things in order, and 
so on.” 

“ Oh, I can do that^” said Elisabeth, unfolding her ac- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


179 


complishments with modest pride; “I learnt all that at 
school ; and I made a dress for myself, too, once. It didn’t 
fit very well, though,” she added, ingenuously. 

'‘Ah, well, that is very useful — very useful indeed,” said 
the clergyman ; “all young women, whatever their station 
in life, should know how to do that sort of thing. It 
always comes in usefully, I fancy. And this seems to me 
very nice, too,” he added, taking up the umbroidery and 
examining it with undiscerning eyes. “ Not quite so fresh- 
looking as it might be, perhaps — been on hand a good 
while, eh ?” 

“ Oh, yes. Please, may I have it ? ” said Elisabeth, hold- 
ing out her hand to take it from him. As she did so his 
eye fell on the diamond ring set on her third finger above 
his own gift. 

“ Where did you get that ?” he said, detaining her hand 
for a moment to examine it. “ I thought you told me you 
had no rings.” (Elisabetli had, in fact, imparted to him 
that piece of information.) “Where can you have got 
one of so much value ? ” 

“ It was your sis — Madame von Waldorf gave it to me,” 
said Elisabeth. “I should have told you about it ; I meant 
to ; but I haven’t seen you since.” 

“ My sister — Emilia, do you mean ?” 

“Yes,” said Elisabeth, slightly intimidated by his tone ; 
“ she came to see me this afternoon. She was very kind ; 
she said she would like me to wear it on this finger as a 
guard.” 

Mr. Holland was silent for a moment. “ That was meant 
as an impertinence ! ” he said then, in a distinct voice. 

“ Oh ! ” said Elisabeth, startled, and letting her work 
fall to the ground. 

“ It was meant as an impertinence — it is an imperti- 
nence,” said' Mr. Holland, with deliberation. “You will 
oblige me, Elisabeth, by never letting me see that ring 
again, and by returning it to my sister at the earliest op- 
portunity.” 

“ Oh, oughtn’t I to have taken it ? ” said Elisabeth, in 
the greatest consternation, slipping the ring from her fin- 
ger into her pocket. 

“ I don’t blame my dear — it was impossible you 
should understand ; you have not the experience requisite 
for the comprehension of impertinence of a certain order. 
But you will oblige me by returning the ring without 
delay.” 


i8o THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 

He rose as lie spoke, folded up his newspaper, and slow- 
ly left the room. Elisabeth sat transfixed for a minute 
by dismay ; something more dreadful than she could have 
imagined had happened. She could not think what had 
happened ! And yet directly afterward her strongest 
feeling was that it would be impossible for her to return 
the ring to Madame von Waldorf. Emilia’s words — she 
liad been right in that supposition — in so far as they con- 
cerned her brother, had made hardly any impression on 
Elisabeth beyond the momentary passion they had roused ; 
they had already almost passed from her mind. But she 
remembered very distinctly, with the ardent gratitude that 
kindness always roused in her, Madame von Waldorf’s 
voice, the charming look in her beautiful eyes as she put 
the ring on her finger, and said they would be friends and 
sisters ; she could not — she could not be so ungrateful as to 
give it back. In a moment she sprang from her seat, picked 
up her working materials, and cramming them into her 
pocket, ran out into the hall. Mr. Holland was just 
gathering up his strength to mount the stairs, when he 
heard Elisabeth’s voice behind him. 

“ Mr. Holland ! ’’ she said. 

He turned round and faced her. Well ? 

“ Mr. Holland,” said Elisabeth, “ do you — would you 
mind if I don’t return the ring to Madame von Waldorf? 
I won’t wear it, indeed,” she went on hurriedly ; ‘‘ you 
shall never see it again, if only I may keep it and not send 
it back. She couldn’t have meant — not what you said. 
She looked so kind when she gave it to me ; she said she 
wanted us to be sis — sisters.” 

Mr. Holland had been engaged not three days, and he 
was made of flesh and blood, as most of us are. He looked 
down on Elisabeth, on her tearful eyes and quivering lips, 
and relented. ‘^Well,” he said, smiling and taking both 
lier hands in his. “ Keep the ring, my dear,” he said ; but 
don’t let me see it again ; I know my sister better than 
you do. And besides,” he added, with a flight of frigid 
sentiment, smiling again as he raised her left hand and 
contemplated the symbol of eternal union he had left 
there, “ I want to feel that this little hand is entirely my 
own.” 

He drew her toward him, placed a paternal kiss on her 
forehead, and ascended the stairs, leaving Elisabeth over- 
whelmed by his goodness and condescension. 

She never wore the ring again. Whether Madame von 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH i8i 

Waldorf noticed its absence, she did not know ; for Emilia 
never mentioned it. 

Elisabeth, who dreaded congratulations — these mundane 
congratulations seemed to her singularly irrelevant to the 
transcendent bliss of her opening Paradise — had one more 
such ordeal to endure within the next few days. She had 
been dining again with Madame von Waldorf, who, in 
view of their approaching connection, had wished, as she 
said, that they should become friends. Friends they were, 
in tlie sense of mutual kindness of feeling ; but they made 
no approach to any great intimacy. The young girl and 
the young woman had too little in common. Elisabeth, 
with her inward glow of passion, her brooding fires of 
enthusiasm, iced ov^er by a shy reserve that she was so far 
almost helpless to break through, lay a little outside 
Madame von Waldorf’s comprehension and sympathies. 
Still, she was very kind to the young girl ; and Elisabeth, 
responding with a great deal of gratitude and admiration, 
had already begun to feel less constrained and ill at ease 
than at first. On the day in question, after dining with 
Madame von Waldorf, she had strayed into the garden to 
gather some snowdrops from a winter-blossoming border 
against a southern wall. It was past the New Year, but 
the days had hardly yet begun to lengthen. Already the 
sun shone low and red behind the leafless screen of pop- 
lars, across the brown parterres and damp garden walks, 
the deserted stone benches and wintry statues. At the 
central pool Elisabeth paused a moment ; a space of blue 
sky seemed fallen there at her feet from the crystalline 
blue of the winter sky overhead ; Ida’s gold-fish were safe 
indoors ; the little pool lay clear through its depth, quiver- 
ing a little as though with a shiver at its heart, before the 
frost-touch of night should come to fix it with a thin film 
of ice. Elisabeth stood motionless, gazing down at this 
blue fragment of heaven, caught in a cup, so it seemed, in 
the midst of the wintry earth, filled at the same source as 
that of the happiness that lay deep and pure at her heart. 
She was feeling happy to-day, indeed. That morning she 
had excused herself from attendance at her class (that 
ardor for study and occult information that had possessed 
her had somewhat cooled in these last days) ; Mr. Holland 
was feeling more fatigued than usual, and she had permitted 
herself — with his permission — to devote herself to his com- 
fort in Frau Werner’s little sitting-room, abandoned by 
that good woman to their use. She had hunted through 


THE FAIL C/EE OF ELISABETH. 


182 

the house for a footstool that would suit him ; she had 
brought down a cushion from her own little sofa up-stairs ; 
he had allowed her to read to him. Mr. Holland was no 
great reader ; but it pleased him sometimes to hear the 
newspapers or some unexciting story read aloud ; and he 
had praised, whilst correcting, her voice and elocution. 
Afterward they had talked ; and Elisabeth, won from her 
usual reticence, had told him all about herself — her early 
life, her lonely childhood, about her school-days, too, al- 
ready so remote, so alien from her present existence. 
That exquisite pleasure of self-revelation, known in its 
fulness only to those solitary and diffident natures who 
permit themselves for once to believe in the full and un- 
wearying sympathy of a hearer, filled Elisabeth’s heart 
with joy. And the joy was to be recurrent, it was to last 
all her life ; never again would she shed lonely tears, and 
feel that the world was a hard place for a little girl of 
seventeen, wandering bewildered, without a clew, in the 
midst of the sad bruising problems of existence. All that 
was at an end now. No wonder Elisabeth felt happy. 
Only one thing had disconcerted her morning of perfect 
felicity. When she had told Mr. Holland of her engage- 
ment to dine with Madame von Waldorf, he had betrayed 
a certain vexation. In a moment, however, he relented 
with a Well, well,” seeing Elisabeth’s look of dismay at 
his annoyance. 

‘‘ Only don’t forget your afternoon class, my dear,” he 
said ; ‘‘ we have been idle this morning ; but your aunt is 
right in wishing you to pursue your studies for the present. 
Later on, you will have other and more important duties 
to occupy your attention. And it is for that reason,” he 
continued, after a moment’s consideration, ‘‘ that it will, 
perhaps, be well for you, Elisabeth, not to frequent my 
sister’s house more than is necessary during the winter. 
Every civility I should wish shown to her, of course ; but 
the life of idleness and luxury that almost necessarily fol- 
lows on the possession of great wealth is not one that will 
ever lie within your reach, or that can be a very whole- 
some example to you in any way.” 

Oh, I don’t care, I don’t care,” said Elisabeth, I mean 
that Madame von Waldorf is very kind indeed, but I don’t 
so much care about going there since the Baroness has 
gone to Vienna.” 

“ Ah, the Baroness,” said Mr. Holland, smoothing down 
his mustache with one finger. “Well, well,” he con- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 183 

eluded, with an indulgent smile, go, or you will be late.” 
And Elisabeth went. 

An idle and luxurious life lay so entirely outside the 
range of my heroine’s aspirations and wishes, that it may 
be affirmed with certainty that that part of Mr. Hol- 
land’s speech did not once recur to Iier. It recurred to 
her so little that she did not even enter a mental protest 
against it, as her sense of justice might have persuaded 
her to do on a moment’s reflection. No ; her happiness, I 
say, lay pure and unruffled at her heart, as tlie little heaven- 
fallen fragment of blue at her feet, that she stood gazing 
down into now, lost in vague and entrancing thought. 
Only the chiming of a church clock roused her ; her class 
began at four, and she must not be late. She wrapped 
her cloak closer around her, and hastened back toward 
the house. 

At the foot of the steps leading up to the terrace she 
met Gordon Temple, who had entered the garden by a 
side door opening into a lane that ran down to the river. 
Elisabeth, on seeing him, stopped short with one of her 
abrupt shy movements. He, on his side, felt something 
of surprise at a change he discovered in the girl’s face 
since he last met her, at the sort of radiance it showed 
under the shadowing brim of her gray felt hat ; a fresh and 
charming maiden, so it seemed to him, stood there blush- 
ing before him, instead of the pale little schoolgirl he had 
seen coming and going now and again. He held out his 
hand with a great deal of cordiality, but with something 
more of deference also than he had yet felt in greeting 
lier; until now she had seemed to him hardly less of a 
child than little Ida. He glanced at her once or twice as 
they ascended the steps together ; after a moment of hesi- 
tation, he spoke. 

“ I am glad to have met you again. Miss Verrinder,” he 
said. ‘‘ I am leaving Schlossberg so soon that I am glad 
to have the chance of giving you all the good wishes that 
have been awaiting your acceptance for some days past.” 

“ Oh, thank you,” said Elisabeth, and instantly began 
to pull her flowers to pieces. 

‘‘ It gives me a great deal of pleasure,” Gordon continued, 

to think that we shall be so nearly related.” That was 
a lie,” he remarked afterwards to his cousin. You will 
excuse my saying so, Emilia, but I think this marriage 
atrocious. What business has a sick man like Robert to 
go and marry a charming young girl ? It ought to be pre- 


84 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


vented.” This view of the matter, however, he did not pro- 
pound to Elisabeth, who merely looked at him in a some- 
what startled fashion. She was vaguely aware that Gordon 
Temple was Mr. Holland’s cousin, but she had not realized 
the future connection between herself and this remote 
young man ; she had not, in fact, thought about him at all. 

“ We shall be related ?” she said. 

“Why, yes,” said Gordon, rather taken aback, but un- 
able to help laughing, “ if what I have heard is true, that 
is to say. Perhaps I’m making some dreadful mistake.” 

“Oh, no, it is true,” said Elisabeth, in a great hurry. 
“Are you going to leave Schlossberg at once ?” she went 
on quickly. 

“ The day after to-morrow.” He walked on in silence 
for a minute at her side, his hands thrust into his pockets. 
“ Miss Verrinder,” he said then, standing still, “ this news 
— this true news,” he said, smiling at her, “ emboldens me 
to make a request. You remain at Schlossberg, I think, 
for the present ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Elisabeth, without embarrassment, “ until my 
classes are finished.” Gordon looked at her ; she was m;t 
much more than a child, after all. This rather odd ar- 
rangement seemed to her the most natural thing in the 
world. 

“Well, I am glad of that,” he said, “ because I wanted to 
ask you whether you would occasionally come in and see 
my father? It would give him so much pleasure if you 
would. He likes visitors — young visitors especially,” he 
said with a smile ; “ he and Ida are the best friends in the 
world.” 

“ Oh, I shall be very glad to come,” said Elisabeth. “ I 
have seen your father. I should like to come very much, 
if you think he would care to have me. But I am afraid 
he will find me — I mean, he will think me stupid, I am 
afraid.” 

“Not at all! "cried her companion. “How can you 
say such things of yourself ! It will give my father great 
pleasure to see you. Miss Verrinder. I venture to say that 
when you know him it will give you great pleasure also. 
You are fond of reading, I think ? Well, so is he ; he can 
talk about all the books in the world ; and if you will tell 
him about different things you are doing and seeing, about 
life at the pension, and so on, that will please him also. 
Anything fresh from the outer world is always a great boon 
to him. I am not asking too much, am I ? ” 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 185 

“Oh, no,” said Elisabeth ; “ I shall like it — I mean, I will 
try to amuse him.” 

“ Ah, that is just what I want,” said Gordon. “I am 
always rather afraid, you know, of his being dull ; an old 
man who cannot move about, and who is a good deal cut 
off by circumstances from the interests and friendships of 
a life-time, is in need of some distraction.” He looked at 
her kindly. “ He will like to know you,” he said. “He 
has heard about you, as well as seen you once or twice. 
He is very much interested in his new niece.” 

“ His new niece ? ” said Elisabeth. 

Gordon laughed again. “You know, don’t you,” he 
said, “ that my cousin Robert is my first cousin ? that my 
mother was his father’s sister ?” 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Elisabeth, very much 
abaslied. “I ought to know, of course. Yes, I suppose I 
did know. But Mr. Holland has — has never talked about 
his relations at all, and I never thought about it — except 
about Madame von Waldorf, of course.” 

“ Ah, well, you will find us all very nice,” said the 
young man, opening the window for her to enter and fol- 
lowing her into the salon. “ Well, then, you will come 
and see my father ; that will be very good of you,” he con- 
cluded, as Elisabeth stood with her hand half held out, 
wanting to go, but embarrassed about taking the initiative. 
Gordon saw her hesitation, and relieved it by holding out 
his own hand. 

“ Good-by,” he said, “ for I don’t suppose we shall 
meet again before I start. By the by,” he went on, not 
very relevantly, “have you heard lately from Madame von 
Leuwine ? ” 

“ Not very lately,” said Elisabeth, coloring. “I ought 
to write to her.” 

“ Ah, do,” he said ; “ she is a good friend — a friend worth 
having. She forgets no one she has once cared about ; 
she is goodness itself.” 

It was on Emilia’s return to the salon that Gordon Tem- 
ple made the remark quoted above. “ I don’t altogether 
understand your young lady, however,” he continued ; 
“ she’s shy, of course, one sees that ; but she seems to 
have no more notion of things than if she had been brought 
up on a desert island. I like her, you know, I like her ; 
but I don’t understand her ; after all, a girl of eighteen is 
not a baby. 

“ Oh, Elisabeth is not a baby far from it,” said Ma- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


1 86 

dame von Waldorf ; ‘‘ but if you want her interpreted, Gor- 
don, you should apply to Aunt Irma. She professes, you 
know, to read off a young girl’s heart like an open book.’' 

No,” he said, ‘‘I don’t know that I want her inter- 
preted ; I rather like her as she is ; I like the desert island 
flavor.” He gave a laugh. ‘‘She had never heard of us,” 
he said ; “ I had to explain who we all are.” 

“Never heard of us?” said Madame von Waldorf, be- 
wildered. 

“ Never heard of us as connected with Robert Holland, 
apparently — excepting you, of course. I had to go through 
the family tree, and represent to her what a delightful 
family she is coming into. I didn’t mention Otto, by the 
by ; I don’t suppose she ever did hear of him.” 

“Oh, that is Robert,” said Madame von Waldorf with 
vexation ; “you know what he is ; he would never speak 
to one of us again, I believe, if he could help it. It is 
natural, perhaps — I mean one understands that he may 
resent certain differences for which neither he nor we are 
responsible ; but I would so willingly be friends with him, 
if he would meet me with the slightest cordiality. But he 
will not.” 

“Well, I like it,” repeated Gordon; “I mean that I 
like it in Miss Verrinder. Most young ladies in her 
position, engaged to marry a middle-aged parson, who is 
nothing particular in himself, would have had his family 
at their finger-ends by this time ; but it seems never to 
have occurred to her for a moment to think about it at all.” 

“That is easily explained,” said Emilia, smiling a little. 
“ She is madly in love with Robert, poor child. I don’t 
suppose she thinks of another thing.” 

“ Well, that I don’t understand,” said Gordon. He sat 
contemplating the ground for a minute in silence. “No, 
not even a desert island,” he said, “ could explain to me a 
young girl’s being madly in love with Robert. Only the 
Baroness could interpret such a riddle as that. However, 
as Miss Elisabeth is going to marry him, I suppose it is 
only common charity to account for it in that way ; but 
God knows how long it will last after they are married.” 
He was again silent for a minute. “ I think the marriage 
an atrocious one,” he repeated ; “ I maintain that it ought 
to be prevented.” 

“My dear Gordon, who is to prevent it? Her own 
friends make no objection ; she herself has set her heart 
on it ; it is no one else’s concern. Aunt Irma and I have 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 187 

said what we could to dissuade her — of course it was turn- 
ing the world topsy-turvy that we should speak to her 
about it in tliat sense at all ; but we did. And there is no 
one else to do anything — unless you take it in hand/’ she 
said, smiling. 

“I ? What have I to do with it?” he answered ; “ it is 
obviously no concern of mine.” And with that he began 
to talk of other things. 

Elisabeth, who thought of nothing but Mr. Holland, had 
omitted to think of him when she pledged herself to go 
and see his uncle. She might, in fact, have found it diffi- 
cult to keep her promise, which it was impossible to fulfil 
without going to Madame von Waldorf’s house, but that 
Mr. Holland, not long afterwards, found himself com- 
pelled to leave Schlossberg for a season. The German 
winter was proving itself too severe for him ; he was 
ordered by the doctors to try the milder climate of Mont- 
reux till the later spring warmth should set in. It does 
not concern us to enlarge upon Elisabeth's sentiments at 
this separation ; it may suffice to say that she presently 
found consolation in the unlimited number of letters that 
Mr. Holland had given her permission to bestow upon 
him. He had requested her, and she had considered the 
request the most reasonable in the world, not to expect an 
equal number in reply ; she would hardly have dreamed 
of complaining, though she would have found it dull, had 
he sent no reply at all. Mr. Holland had too decorous a 
mind, however, to treat his correspondence with such 
large neglect ; and once a week, at least, Elisabeth re- 
ceived a priceless treasure in return for the daily volumes 
she herself thrust with beating heart into the letter-box 
on her way to and from her classes. Volumes indeed ; 
speech was so difficult to her, and writing, comparatively 
speaking, so easy ; and she could so completely figure to 
herself the singular attention Mr. Holland would bring to 
the study of these revelations of the personality that must 
certainly be more interesting to him than all the world 
beside. It is true Elisabeth’s humility instructed her that 
her personality was too insignificant to be of any real im- 
portance to Mr. Holland ; but the two sentiments were 
not in the slightest degree incompatible ! On the whole, 
these may be counted among the happiest days she ever 
knew. 

Mr. Holland, meanwhile, was not her only correspond- 
ent. She received more than one letter from the 


i88 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


Baroness in the course of the next few months. The 
first, but the first only, was one of earnest expostulation 
from her good friend. The Baroness entreated her to 
pause, to reflect, to consider how young she was, how 
ignorant of the world ; to delay for a year or two, at any 
rate. Before finally casting her fate for life ; but after that 
letter Madame von Leuvvine expostulated no more. Elisa- 
beth’s answer proved to her it would be useless ; for the 
rest, the only relations the girl had in the world had con- 
sented to the marriage — the Baroness, though she never 
revealed the fact to Elisabeth, wrote, but without effect, 
to Mrs. Verrinder also ; Mr. Holland, that lady replied, 
was of good family she understood, and held in the high- 
est estimation — what could anyone else do? The Ba- 
roness, at any rate, wrote no more expostulations ; she 
contented herself with making a bid, as it were, for Elisa- 
beth’s confidence and affection. She herself had con- 
ceived a warm affection for the young girl Among 
the many young girls with whom she came in contact, 
she had found, as she considered, a schone Seele she 
had no intention, if she could help it, of losing sight of 
her, of letting her drift away into that void of life in 
which so many friendships are swallowed up, so many 
affections wither and perish. For the Baroness had the 
incomparable gift of a loyal and faithful soul — the best 
gift, one is sometimes tempted to think, that nature can 
bestow among the egotisms, the caprices, the great indif- 
ference of humanity. 

The last letter she addressed to Elisabeth before her 
marriage was received by the girl on the eve of her mar- 
riage-day. She read it, as she had read all the others, in 
her spacious attic in the Pension Werner. For Elisabeth 
was to be married at Schlossberg. At the time of her en- 
gagement, she supposed, so far as she had considered the 
matter at all, that she would return to London and be 
married from her uncle’s house. Such, in fact, would in 
ordinary circumstances probably have been the course of 
events. But some two or three months later, a letter from 
her aunt instructed her that Colonel Verrinder’s health 
demanded a complete change ; that she was, therefore, 
breaking up her establishment, and that they were going 
abroad for a twelvemonth. “ Under these circumstances, 
my dear Elisabeth,” Mrs. Verrinder had written, ‘‘ I am 
particularly pleased to think that you have before you a 
settled and, as I trust, a happy future. Your Uncle’s 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


189 


health demands my incessant attention ; I should be 
unable to give you any direct supervision ; and the 
wandering life we may probably be compelled to lead for 
a time is one in every way unsuited to a young girl like 
yourself. Your marriage rejoices me, therefore, under 
every aspect. Young as you are, you are quite old 
enough at eighteen to undertake the superintendence of a 
household ; and your uncle and myself are happy to think 
that you will be in the care of so excellent and estimable 
a man as we .understand Mr. Holland to be. Some Ger- 
man baths having been recommended to your uncle 
during the summer, we shall take Schlossberg on our 
way, so as to be present at your marriage ; which under 
the circumstances it will be best, as I have intimated to 
Frau Werner, should take place from her house. I have 
also, my good friend Baroness von Leu wine being in 
Vienna (a fact I regret on every account), forwarded a 
sum of money to Frau Werner, with the request that she 
will see to the purchase of such articles of clothing as 
you may require. Germans, I understand, are exceed- 
ingly practical in such matters, and I have every con- 
fidence in her judgment ” 

“My judgment? I have an excellent judgment as to 
how many pounds of sausage thirty people will eat in a 
week,” said poor Frau Werner, when my heroine com- 
municated to her this letter; ‘Har too many for my poor 
accounts to make much of a figure on the right side. I 
think sometimes it is my poor little Mina’s and Lina’s 
boots and shoes that I see the Reverend Sparrow swallow- 
ing down. He has such an admirable appetite, that good 
man. But as for your clothes, my best Fraulein, what do 
I know of them, or what time have I to think of them ? 
Your aunt has some original ideas, I think. I am flattered 
by her confidence — pray tell her so when you write ; but I 
shall have to request you, my dear Miss Elisabeth, to 
apply to someone else for advice ; though you yourself, I 
should have thought, would best know what you require 
and what you would like. But if you should be in want 
of counsel, 1 would suggest Madame von Waldorf, a per- 
son of the finest taste and judgment in such matters. I 
shall so gladly hand over to her the money.” And it was 
Emilia, finally, who superintended the purchase of Elisa- 
beth’s modest trousseau. 

But to Elisabeth’s immense, unspeakable relief, Mrs. 
Verrinder was not to be present at her marriage, after all. 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


190 

Her aunt’s arrival had hung before the girl like a night- 
mare ; and when a week before the appointed day she re- 
ceived a letter to say that Colonel Verrinder was laid up 
at Geneva with one of his worst attacks of rheumatic 
gout, that it would be impossible, therefore, for either of 
them to be present, she felt as if a cloud heavy as lead had 
been lifted from her life. Her aunt’s presence had created 
for her always an atmosphere of dreariness and constraint. 
Only at Schlossberg had she been altogether free from it ; 
Schlossberg lay apart and sacred from that chill breath 
that had checked and silenced the fresh impulses of her 
youth ; she had felt that her aunt’s presence would dese- 
crate that separate spot also, would strew it with the gray 
ashes that seemed to lie upon all her previous years. 
Hardly could Mr. Holland have protected her ; the flower 
of her young life had been too closely pressed and 
flattened, to the intimate loss of color and fragrance, ever 
to spring freely within reach of that blighting influ- 
ence. Other people, then, might be horrified at the 
isolation in which she was left ; that was not Elisabeth’s 
point of view at all. She willingly abandoned to her 
friends any indignation that might be felt at the fact that 
not a relation of her own would be with her at her mar- 
riage ; and in none of them was the sentiment stronger 
than in Madame von Leuwine. 

“ My dear Elisabeth,” she wrote in that letter received 
on the eve of Elisabeth’s wedding-day, I have been do- 
ing my utmost — my utmost so to arrange matters as to be 
in Schlossberg on Thursday ; but I find it absolutely impos- 
sible for the moment to quit Vienna. I am detained by 
business that demands my constant attention, so I can only 
leave you to Emilia’s care. And for that matter I leave 
you to Emilia with an easy mind ; she will be to you, I 
know, as much a sister as is possible under the circum- 
stances ; it is for my own pleasure, dear child, I should 
have liked to be with you. 

Emilia will give you a little gold bracelet I shall ask 
you to wear in memory of an old friend who loves you 
warmly ; but my real wedding present — you will think it 
a dull one, I am afraid — is contained in an enclosure in 
this letter. In the enclosed envelope, my dear Elisabeth, 
is a small sum of money wljicli I request you to lock away, 
saying nothing of it to anyone, not even to your husband. 
Consider it my whim, and gratify it, my dear child ; and 
gratify me further by not opening the envelope or using 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 191 

the money till some really urgent occasion shall arise — so 
urgent that you cannot get on without it. You cannot 
imagine it just now, but the moment may come when you 
may be glad to have a little money in reserve. In any 
case, it will give me so much pleasure that you should in- 
dulge me in my whim, that you will not, I am sure, refuse 
me. If in fifteen years, let us say, the money is still un- 
spent, you shall return it to me ; and I will expend it on 
whatever you shall choose." 

Certainly Elisabeth could not imagine that perilous con- 
tingency hinted at by the Baroness ; she could imagine it 
so little that she could not think what Madame von Leu- 
wine meant by making her a present in such a form. Per- 
haps — it all at once occurred to her — it was because she 
had sold her necklace ; but that was a memory that always 
made her cheeks burn, and she put it quickly out of her 
mind. On the whole, it certainly was a little dull ; and siie 
would very much have liked to know what was inside the 
envelope. She never dreamed, however, of not doing what 
her friend wished. Siie locked the money safely away in a 
box where she kept a few treasures, and sitting down, 
wrote at once to thank the Baroness and to give her the 
required promises. Then she dismissed the matter alto- 
gether from her thoughts; she had given her promise, and 
that was enough ; there was no fear that she would be 
tempted to break it. 

It was rather late by the time she finished her letter, and 
the house was quite quiet. Elisabeth was behindhand 
with her packing ; and having, in an extreme desire to 
find herself alone, declined both Frau Werner’s and Mrs. 
Sparrow’s offers of assistance, she had to set to work and 
finish it now. She had felt no disposition to go to bed ; 
but by the time everything was in readiness for the mor- 
row, she was too tired to think of doing anything else. 
She collected some last stray scraps of paper and string, 
and put out her candle ; the moon was shining so brightly 
into her room that she wished to have the pleasure of un- 
dressing by its light. It was June now ; tlie little casement 
stood wide open to tlie warm summer air. It was not dark 
at all ; the sky was a clear blue, the white moonlight lay 
everywhere, over the city and the plain ; here and there a 
weathercock glittered on some tower or spire ; the hills 
lay clear and soft like shadows on the horizon. It was so 
still, so peaceful over the sleeping city, that Elisabeth, 
leaning forward with her arms resting on the window-sill. 


192 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


felt a strange oppression at her heart. She was not think- 
ing then of the morrow, or of Mr. Holland ; her mind 
shrank back, suddenly frightened, from that thought. She 
was thinking of the little lost brother whose name always 
filled her eyes with unbidden tears, of the mother gone 
from her when she was but five years old. If they could 
come to her now, come to her through the blue air, through 
the white glow and glory of the niglit, and bear her away 
with them, free, and yet for ever at peace — would not that 
be best ? A terrible yearning suddenly filled the girl’s 
heart after her childhood, after the past, after those faces 
whose dear memories filled the fresh morning of her life. 
The future said nothing to her then ; what had it to do 
with those first half-mystic, childish days, with the mother 
on whose knee she had spelt out her first book, with the 
brother with whom she had played and quarrelled, and 
kissed and quarrelled again ? What had it to do with her 
late years, with her books, her dreams, with the winged 
fancies that bore her through the magic, unknown, un- 
tried world, untried still, though it lay spread out there at 
her feet ? The future returned upon her like a thunder- 
clap, a warning, a terror out of the silence of the light- 
transfused sky. The girl sank upon her knees, and broke 
into sobs and tears and inarticulate prayers. Oh, she was 
alone, too terribly alone for so young a thing. 

Her tears passed. Perhaps she slept as she knelt there, 
leaning against the window-sill ; for when she looked up 
again the moon had climbed above the house, and only 
the light from the sky was in her room. Elisabeth sprang 
up, startled ; and lighting her candle again, began to hurry 
into bed. The homely familiar room brought back her 
familiar mood. The past rolled itself up and vanished ; a 
sense of profound happiness filled her heart once more. 
What besides happiness could she henceforward know ? 
Utterly to lose her faltering self in a better, wiser will 
than her own, that was the perfect future that lay before 
her. Elisabeth never conceived herself as developing an 
individuality apart from that of the man whom she had 
elected for worship ; on the contrary, she dreamed of limit- 
ing her nature and her will to his, as under other circum- 
stances she might have dreamed of limiting her nature to 
the still routine, the narrow walls of a convent cell. 

Dreaming still, Elisabeth lay with open eyes far into the 
depth of that summer night. Presently, however, she 
slept. 


THE FAIL C/EE OF ELISABETH: 


193 


CHAPTER XXL 

THREE LETTERS. 

One April day, nearly three years later, Gordon Temple, 
arriving in London from the East, found among a pile of 
letters awaiting him at his hotel, two or three that more 
immediately concern the actors in this little history. The 
first that he opened was from the Baroness : 

‘‘ If I have not written to you, my dear Gordon, since we 
wished each other good-by more than a twelvemonth ago, 
I am certainly not to blame. Qui s’excuse, s’accuse ; I 
don’t excuse myself, therefore ; 1 merely state the fact that 
I have a great deal too much to do and to think of, to send 
letters wandering after vague addresses, with a hundred 
chances against their ever reaching the person to whom 
they are written. Your fifty addresses seemed to me each 
one more impossible than the other ; so I waited until 
there was some moderate hope of my letter finding you in 
London. For the rest, Emilia, who is more enterprising 
than I am, and who has certainly less to do, will have kept 
you informed, I know, as to your father. I saw him only 
last week, on an occasion of a visit to Schlossberg. He 
was wonderfully well, not a day older in appearance than 
when you parted from him last spring. Such a beautiful 
old age ought, one would say, to last for ever ; nevertheless, 
I am glad this second expedition of yours is at an end. 
He misses you, of course ; and wherever you may be in 
Europe, you will at least be within a measurable distance 
of liim ; and at his age that is to be desired both for him 
and for yourself. 

I have to congratulate you, I find on various excellent 
things : on the success of your mission, on the distinguish- 
ed name of which all your friends are beginning to be 
proud, on the recovery of part of your fortune. The first 
two are no more than I expected ; the last, in spite of some 
probabilities, I did not greatly expect, and I am pleased I 
may say, in proportion. It is ail very well to be a philoso- 
pher, and to say that money is of no account ; once in a 
million years or so, perhaps, one may meet with a man to 
whom such words are literally true ; but for the mass of 
struggling humanity, among whom I count you and my- 
self, my dear Gordon, money is a delightful thing ; and I, 


194 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


fur my part should find it very hard work in these days 
to get on without it. I am rejoiced to think your trou- 
bles in that direction are fairly over. I should like, how- 
ever, to give you one word of exhortation about your 
father. Let me beg of you not to disturb him in his pres- 
ent quarters in Emilia’s house. I do not speak only on 
his account, though that, naturally, must weigh with you 
more than anything else ; but also on Emilia’s. My poor 
girl makes the best of her life, and indeed, it is -a life of 
which a good deal may be made ; but after all, it is a 
broken one, and lonely enough in some ways ; and it has, 
1 know, been the greatest pleasure and interest to her to 
have her uncle with her in these last years. I say all tiiis be- 
cause it seems to me probable that now you have a few hun- 
dreds again lying atyour banker’s, your first unwise idea may 
be to make your father independent of anyone’s care but 
your own. I tell you frankly, then, without circumlocu- 
tion, you are not nearly so well fitted to take care of him 
as some other people ; and that any attempt to carry out 
such an idea would simply create a great deal of unhappi- 
ness all round. As for my studio, concerning which you 
were pleased to make such a fuss last year, 1 found an ex- 
cellent one last winter, so much better in various ways tlian 
the one I occupied in Emilia’s house, that I should, in any 
case, retain it for myself in the future. 

If you have a day to spare from London before start- 
ing for Schlossberg, I wish you would look up your cousin, 
Robert Holland, and his wife. They have been spending 
the winter in the South of England, but they are at home 
again now in Thornton Briars, for how long I do not know, 
since I imagine his state of health to be such as to in- 
capacitate him almost entirely for parish work. Do me 
the favor to go and see them, and send me a report. Their 
station is not above two hours by rail from London ; and 
though their village is ten miles from any station, that is no 
great matter for a traveller like yourself. I have not seen that 
poor child for more than two years and a half, and her let- 
ters give me little beyond the scantiest outlines of her life. 
When I say ‘that poor child,’ I do not mean that any par- 
ticular misfortune has befallen her, but simply that I am 
convinced that her life is not a happy one ; how could it 
be ? I know an intelligent young creature when I see her; 
and undeveloped as Elisabeth was three years ago, I am 
too much accustomed to young girls not to have discerned 
the quality of her intellect, and the strain of a mind as free 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


195 


from worldly dross as any that I have happened to come 
across. Would to heaven she had had a little more ; she 
might then, possibly, have avoided that particular net into 
which she ran her foolish little head. All this, however, 
we have discussed before ; you know my views on Elisa- 
beth and on your cousin. Do me the favor to go and see 
her, and tell me what you can gather concerning her life. 
If her husband has simply made her miserable, I can still, 
I think, forgive him ; given the marriage, she must of ne- 
cessity be miserable ; but if she has deteriorated, if he has 
succeeded in warping and limiting her nature to his own 
narrow and stinted one, I will never forgive him — never. 
Who can say ? A girl will do so much for the man she 
starts by adoring, even to dwarfing and repressing her 
own finest qualities. And yet Elisabeth, if I am not mis- 
taken, had a good deal of independence of character, 
though her extreme diffidence hardly permitted her to 
show it, or even to recognize it herself. I cannot believe 
she will ever sink into that crushed rag of a wife that these 
girls with a religious ideal, and a genius for adoration, oc- 
casionally become. I have had no chance, I say, of ascer- 
taining one way or the other, for I have been quite unable 
to get to England, and they do not come abroad. Last 
winter they spent again at Westport, which seems, on the 
whole, to suit Robert Holland’s health. I don’t under- 
stand about his health ; last summer Elisabeth wrote about 
it more hopefully ; he was able to occupy himself a great 
deal more in the parish, she said, than in the previous year. 
I presume he overworked again, and broke down, for he 
appears to have gone through a long illness afterward at 
Westport, and never to have got back to the point he had 
reached before. It is a dismal life — a dismal life. Emilia 
has invited them to Schlossberg — she would have arranged 
for them, you know — but they have never come. That 
is not Elisabeth’s doing. She has often expressed to me, 
and it is the only expression of a wish she has allowed her- 
self to utter, her longing to come to Schlossberg again ; 
but they have never, since their marriage, crossed the 
Channel. In short, my dear Gordon, oblige me by going, 
if possible, to see them, and telling me what you think of 
Elisabeth. It is my first chance to get direct news of her. 
A second chance, indeed, lies before me. Otto tells me 
that he has offered his brother the use, during May and 
June (when he and Mathilde and the child are to be at 
Bingen), of the second floor of that old Palazzo he bought 


196 


THE FAIL C/EE OF ELISABETH 


in Venice a couple of years ago. He has had no answer 
from Robert yet, and has no idea whether the offer will be 
accepted. I think it not impossible; Otto^ is the only 
member of liis family to whom Robert Holland has ever 
shown himself moderately civil ; and if he is obliged to 
leave Thornton Briars again — I don’t know what took him 
back there so early, but Elisabeth seemed to think it doubt- 
ful that they could stay on through the east winds — the 
fact that he would be lodged for nothing might have 
weight with him. If they go, I hope to be able to run over 
from Vienna and see Elisabeth. In the meantime, let me 
hear what you can of her. 

“ I look forward greatly to seeing you again, my dear 
Gordon ; and if the nature of things should not bring you 
to Vienna, my school at Schlossberg will probably require 
my attention there in a month or two.” 

A letter from Madame von Waldorf was somewhat in 
the same strain. 

If you have a few hours to spare,” she wrote, after 
giving her cousin various details concerning his father, 
“and it should not inconvenience you too much, you 
would do me a real favor by running down to Thornton 
Briars and bringing me some account of Robert. I gather 
from Elisabeth’s letters that he is making very little prog- 
ress just now; but though I believe she does her best to 
keep me informed as to his state, she has, I imagine, too 
little experience of illness, apart from that of Robert, 
either to form or to convey a very accurate judgment in 
the matter. Besides, no one who is constantly with an 
invalid is altogether qualified to judge of him. I have 
seen, as you know, nothing of either of them since their 
marriage, though again, last autumn, I pressed them very 
much to come here. Aunt Irma says that it is Robert’s 
doing, and that his wife would be only too happy to come ; 
but Elisabeth, to me, has never expressed any wish of the 
kind. Had she done so, I might have urged the matter 
still more strongly ; but practically she and I still remain 
strangers — 1 don’t know whether that is Robert’s doing 
also ; Aunt Irma would probably say that it is! She writes 
charming letters from time to time to your father about 
books and places, and so on. If you see her, do tell her 
how much pleasure they give him. ^ Ah, here is a good 
little Elisabeth-letter,’ he always says, when one arrives; 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


197 


but — naturally, perhaps — they contain little that concerns 
her intimate home-life. So should you have time to go to 
Thornton Briars, you would be doing me a favor ; but 
don’t let it interfere with anything more important. 

In the meantime, we are counting the days till your 
arrival here ; in about a fortnight, will it not be ? Ida has 
a calendar, and marks off each day with the very blackest 
of ink. She wants to send you a little letter, she says ; 
but as her little letters, in her very big handwriting, take 
up a great deal of room, I will leave all the rest of the space 
to her. On consideration, however, she says she is too 
busy to write to you, and begs me, therefore, to tell you 
that she had a birthday last week, and is now eight years 
f old ; that she is very glad you have come home, and hopes 
you will soon come here. So you see, dear Gordon, we 
I are all in great haste to have you, even should you have to 
/ go away again, as I fear may be the case. We all feel you 
are getting to be too big a man for Schlossberg to hold 
you properly, but let us have as much of you as possible. 

Affectionately yours, 

Emilia.” 

Some ten days latter Gordon answered the Baroness's 
letter : 

I have been to Thornton Briars,” he wrote ; it is a 
queer, out-of-the-way place ; and though it is only about 
three hours from London, one feels a thousand miles 
away. I think Robert very ill : I doubt if his wife, who is 
with him constantly, realizes how ill he is ; I am sure he 
does not himself. He was talking to me about some in- 
vestments, and so on, as if he had fifty years of life before 
him. Mrs. Holland strikes me as one of the most interest- 
ing women I ever saw. She has not deteriorated; she is 
very greatly improved ; but she is, I should say, very un- 
happy. She has everything to make her so. 

I hope to be at Schlossberg in three days, but I don’t 
know how long I shall be able to remain. I have to go to 
Venice to hunt up some Oriental manuscripts, so I am 
afraid there is no chance of Vienna for the present. Come to 
Venice, therefore, by all means. I have no idea, though, 
whether Robert means to go there ; he seemed perfectly 
undecided in his plans. As regards my father and Emilia, 
for what sort of an ungracious monster do you take me ? 
Her kindness I can never repay ; but, at least, I can ap- 


198 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


preciate it. It would be an odd sort of appreciation to 
propose carrying off my father now. The plan may have 
had its drawbacks to me personally, but to him not one ; 
nor, I am bound to believe her, to Emilia either. I can 
only acquiesce with my eternal gratitude.'' 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THORNTON BRIARS. 

Gordon Temple, arriving in Europe from the second 
journey he had made to the East in the last three years, 
had gone first to London, to report himself and his work 
to the society in whose interests he had been travelling ; 
and to look after certain money matters in which his own 
interest, as the Baroness had intimated, was happily reviv- 
ing. A portion of his own fortune, which had at first 
seemed lost in the general wreck, had been rescued by 
the hands to which he had entrusted the management of 
his affairs ; his days of poverty were over, he was thank- 
ful to think, for his father, and for himself. This, and the 
warm reception he met with from his friends, and from 
the members of the society to which he was attached, put 
Gordon into excellent spirits. He found time, more 
readily than he might otherwise have done, to go down to 
Thornton Briars and visit Robert Holland. It was not a 
journey he greatly cared to undertake : he did not like his 
cousin ; his cousin did not like him ; he had no reason to 
expect a very cordial welcome at his journey's end. Hav- 
ing resigned himself, however, to the expedition in com- 
pliance with the wishes of the Baroness and Madame von 
Waldorf, he permitted himself some curiosity as to the 
success of a marriage concerning which he had heard so 
much discussion some three years back. 

He reached Thornton Briars toward the close of a Satur- 
day afternoon ; for a part of Saturday and a Sunday were, 
he found, the days he could best spare out of his engage- 
ments. He had not written to announce his arrival, for it 
was only at the last hour he had been able to decide on 
going ; and he took the precaution to ascertain in the little 
country town where the train left him, and he hired a 
vehicle for his ten miles’ drive across country, whether 
there was any inn at Thornton Briars where he could put: 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


199 


Up for the night. There was a little public house, he was 
told, where he would be made comfortable enough ; and 
presently arriving, he alighted there to leave his bag and 
inquire the way to the vicarage. His drive had taken him 
across that charming, broken, undulating country, part 
fertile field and pasture-land, oak-studded and hedge- 
divided, part breezy and heathery moorland, that may be 
found in half a dozen directions within a radius of fifty or 
sixty miles from Charing Cross — a land dipping and ris- 
ing to woods and meadows, to the long slope of brown 
fields divided by the differing brown of copses, to wide 
stretches of common, where black serrated lines of fir-trees 
cut sharp against the sky. But the ascent was continuous 
on the whole ; Thornton Briars, he found, lay steeply on 
the ridge of a hill looking across line beyond line of 
smooth-backed downs rolling southward to the sea. It 
was a view that had the beauty of a vast landscape under 
a vast sky ; white April clouds drifting across the blue 
heavens, casting fleeting shadows, or breaking into equally 
fleeting showers on the variegated land ; silvery lights 
gleaming and shifting and gleaming again over the 
ploughed fields, the dark patches — they looked like cloud- 
shadows caught and held stationary — that marked the 
plantations and covers of some country seat, across the 
distant horizons that rose and sank and melted into pale 
blue-gray mists beyond an immense foreground of sloping 
meadows vivid with April green, enclosing a sweep of 
woods reddened by April buds. Commanding this wide 
expanse the village displayed itself like a hundred other 
English villages — an irregular line of latticed and gabled 
cottages, scattered and straggling up and down the brow 
of the hill among hedges, and paddocks, and tidy gardens. 
A butcher’s shop, a baker’s shop with sugar-sticks and 
loaves in a row, a post-office with more sugar-sticks, with 
ploughmen’s boots and petroleum, with bacon and calico, 
seemed to represent the commerce of the place. One or 
two houses of more pretension stood squarely back from 
the road, separated by lawn and shrubbery and quickset 
hedge from their humbler neighbors ; a brass plate at- 
tached to the gate of one of these showed it to be the 
residence of Dr. Fawcett, the doctor of the district. The 
vicarage, Gordon found, stood somewhat apart, beyond 
the village street, where hedges and meadows gave place 
again to an uneven stretch of moorland, broken into 
paounds and hollows, black now with last year’s blackened 


200 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


heather, and gray with sodden, uneven grass. Facing this 
waste-land stood the vicarage, separated from it only by 
the low white paling that enclosed a little front garden. 
It was a long gray stone building, of the last century 
probably, substantially built, stained with black streaks 
through stress of weather, with a straight upper row of 
windows, and a long low lattice on either side of the hall- 
door. It was a childless house, as Gordon knew; one 
might almost havx guessed it, he thought, from the silent 
blankness with which it seemed to confront the world. A 
paved footway — there was no carriage-drive — divided the 
little garden and led straight up to the front door, flanked 
on either side by laurels. There were primroses and 
double daisies blooming in the narrow flower-beds ; and 
to the right, separated by a slight iron fence from the 
garden and shrubbery that ran round that side of the 
house, lay a pasture green and sweet with clumps of flower- 
ing daffodils. To the left, a damp path, shadowed by a 
high laurel hedge, divided the vicarage to the north and 
east, from the neatly-kept churchyard, whose sunken graves 
and tombstones lay round the old square-towered church. 
The place, though not unpicturesque, looked desolate 
enough ; but a gleam of western sunlight gilded it for the 
moment with a magic touch, giving it a suggestion of 
peaceful seclusion from a weary world. Gordon Temple 
rang at the front door-bell, and being presently confronted 
by a red-cheeked country maiden, was informed, in answer 
to his inquiries, that Mrs. Holland was at home. He 
presented his card, and was at once ushered into a parlor 
opening from the hall to the left of the doorway. 

Two hours before Gordon rang at the bell, the heroine 
of these pages was seated in her own room up-stairs, cry- 
ing. She soon dried her eyes, however, and began bathing 
them with cold water to efface all traces of her weeping. 
Her husband disliked above all things to see her with red 
eyes ; he had often reproved her for her foolish trick of 
tears. It was true that Elisabeth cried rather often in 
these days. If anyone had asked her why, she might have 
replied, though she most certainly would not have done 
so, that she often cried because she was often unhappy. It 
was a matter, however, concerning which she made many 
good resolutions ; and when surprised, as on this after- 
noon, into a fit of tears over some transitory ill, she made 
liaste to check them, and remove every sign of grief before 
encountering her husband again. She bathed her eyes, 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


201 


therefore, rubbing lier cheeks the while to bring back a 
little color; then glancing at the mirror to assure herself 
that her face showed no signs of recent emotion, she 
opened her door and went out on to the wide landing that 
occupied the centre of the house, and from which an old 
broad-stepped staircase led to the hall below. Elisabeth, 
crossing the landing, paused a moment at a door that stood 
ajar, long enough to hear her name pronounced from 
within. She pushed the door open and entered. 

The room — it had a cheerful aspect, with a window to 
the front and another at the side, commanding a wide and 
open view — was fitted up as a study, Mr. Holland having 
of late years transferred his books and papers from the 
room below, that had formerly been dignified by that 
name, finding it convenient to have a sitting-room that ad- 
joined his bedroom, and to be spared, so far as possible, 
the fatigue of going up and down the stairs. He was 
lying now, stretched on a sofa facing the door, his feet 
covered with a knitted rug. 

“My dear,” he said, as Elisabeth appeared, “I should 
like my tea brought up here.” 

“Oh, I will bring it up directly,” said Elisabeth; “I 
think it must be nearly ready ; Ell go and see.” 

“And if Richards should call, tell him that I can’t see 
him this afternoon ; I am too much fatigued. He must 
come to-morrow morning instead.” 

“I’ll tell him,” said Elisabeth, going a step nearer to the 
sofa. “ Oh, 1 am sorry you are so tired. Can’t I do any- 
thing for you ? ” 

“Nothing, my dear, thank you.” He closed his eyes, 
but re-opened them in a moment. 

If Dulcie should come,” he said, “ I should like to be 
told. I may wish to speak to her.” 

Elisabeth, who was about to leave the room, paused at 
these words, her hand on the lock of the door. 

“Won’t that — won’t that tire you as much as seeing Mr, 
Richards ? ” she said. 

She had no sooner spoken than she was conscious of hav- 
ing spoken unwisely. Her husband simply repeated his 
former sentence. 

“ If Dulcie should come in I should like to be told. 
Jane can bring up the tea,” he added, as Elisabeth turned 
to go. 

“Yes,” she answered. She stood still for a moment, 
then turned to her husband once more, “ Would you like 


202 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


me,” she said, with a certain timidity, to go and see that 
child of Mrs. Taylor’s this afternoon ? I should have pleni\ 
of time to go and come back before dark.” 

Mr. Holland, who had closed his eyes again, did m i 
immediately reply. “Mrs. Taylor’s child is very weh 
cared for,” he said then ; “ Dulcie and Richards are botli 
looking after it ; it is quite unnecessary for anyone else to 
go. Kindly shut the door after you, my dear ; I feel the 
draught here when it is left ajar.” 

Elisabeth did as she was requested, and began slowly to 
descend the stairs. The house struck her — and yet she was 
used to it — as extraordinarily quiet, and yet echoing with 
emptiness. A clock ticking in the hall was the only sound ; 
the rooms were for the most part empty and dismantled, 
curtains and carpets rolled up and folded away. Mr. Rich- 
ards, the curate-in-charge, occupied a small house in the 
middle of the village ; for eight or nine months in the 
year the vicarage stood vacant. Elisabeth went into the 
kitchen to give directions about the tea and see it carried 
up-stairs, and having presently finished her own simple 
repast, made her way into the sitting-room, which opened, 
as has been intimated, to the left of the hall door. It was 
the room in which she habitually sat, and for the most 
part sat alone, lier husband’s invalid habits making him 
often late in the morning; indeed, except for meals or for 
a stroll in the garden, he seldom cared to come down-stairs 
until the close of the afternoon. The drawing-room of 
Thornton Briars vicarage was a long low-ceiled room run- 
ning from back to front of the liouse, with a wide lattice at 
either end, one looking on to the damp walk and high 
laurel hedge that masked the churchyard wall ; the other, 
more cheerfully, on to the front garden and free expanse 
of the heathery waste beyond. But notwithstanding these 
advantages of light, and, on the whole, of sunshine, the 
room struck frigidly on entrance. It was the furniture, 
no doubt, that helped this chill aspect, the pale and cheap 
wall-paper, the indifferent steel engravings, the heavy 
chairs and tables — splid and heavy after the fashion of two 
generations back — the chintzes washed and faded out of 
all recognition of their hue, the sliding screens with land- 
scapes worked in cross-stitch, the 'flowery carpet that 
retained of its former colors only enough to show how hid- 
eous it must once have been. On the high white mantel- 
shelf above the fireless hearth a gilt-faced alabaster clock 
was set between two alabaster vases, flanked by a pair of 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 




twinkling lustres ; a no less twinkling chandelier hung 
suspended from the ceiling above the vast area of a round 
mahogany table that occupied the centre of the room ; 
beyond, a small standing bookcase against the wall display- 
ed a selection of those polite calf-bound and gilt-edged 
volumes that hold out the promise of some admirable vig- 
nette by Turner or Stothard, married to some less admir- 
able verse by Rogers or Campbell. The whole room, in 
the pristine splendor of its present trappings, might have 
served — perhaps had served — as an appropriate back- 
ground to the romance of some heroine in high comb and 
gigot sleeves and sandalled slippers ; in its present con- 
dition it conveyed an impression, which was absolutely 
correct, of having been solidly furnished some fifty or 
sixty years before, and taken, as it was, at a valuation, by 
its present owner, who had not thought it necessary to be- 
stow on it any affectation of freshness when he brought 
home his young wife. Elisabeth, who had had no chance 
of adding to its freshness on her own account — a soup- 
plate filled with primroses on the centre-table marked the 
limits of her powers in that direction — had necessarily ac- 
cepted it as it was. She had not minded it at first ; chairs 
and tables could have very little to say to her when she 
first arrived at Thornton Briars ; and she did not always 
mind now. She did mind, that is to say ; Elisabeth had 
some sensitiveness, it may be remembered, to her surround- 
ings ; and there were moments when she dreamed to her- 
self of a charming and beautiful home such as she had 
glimpses of now and again in other houses. But, on the 
whole, she would have said that the furniture of a room 
could do little to add either to her happiness or her mis- 
ery ; and that in a sense was true, no doubt. Besides, the 
room might have been worse ; it was decorous, and, on the 
whole, simple. Elisabeth knew of worse rooms than that. 

She sat down now in a low chair near the empty hearth, 
and propping up an open book on the table beside her, 
took some plain work from a basket at her side, and fell 
to sewing and reading at the same time. Elisabeth, it may 
be remembered again, was not very fond of sewing ; but 
having a good deal to do in these days, she had adopted the 
above simple expedient for beguiling those infelicitous 
hours. Now and then she looked up ; she was on the 
watch for Mr. Richards, the curate ; she wished to prevent 
his ringing the door-bell. In that silent house, every 
sound had a strange distinctness, and her husband might 


204 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 



be asleep. Presently she heard the click of the little gar- 
den-gate, and saw Mr. Richards — he was a tall and good- 
humored-looking young man, with a rosy face and tre- 
mendous energy — coming up the garden-path. Elisabeth 
sprang up, went to the hall door, and opening it, dismissed 
him in hushed tones. The curate looked at lier kindly 
and sympathetically. He had an affection for his vicar, 
to whom he was indebted for some kindnesses and a great 
deal of good advice, by which he had profited ; he was an 
excellent young man ! But he always felt sorry for his 
vicar’s wife, who knew nothing of his sympathy, and might 
probably have resented it if she had. He was himself en- 
gaged to be married to a young girl in London, and hoped 
some day to make her a happier home than that he ima- 
gined to lie within those old gray walls. He expressed 
his regret now, shook liands with Elisabeth, promised to 
come in the morning, and took himself off again with a 
swinging step down the garden path, leaving her to return 
to silence and her work. 

She returned to her work, and resumed her needle and 
her book ; but her needle presently slackened and slipped 
from her hand, whilst, with her eyes fixed on the pages of 
the book before her, she became absorbed in its contents. 
It was only a volume of Walter Scott ; the vicarage book- 
cases offered nothing newer — hardly anything else — in fic- 
tion ; but in truth, Elisabeth, who loved a story no less now 
than three years ago, loved no writer of stories better than 
Walter Scott. She became so absorbed, indeed, that she 
failed to hear the gate click a second time as Gordon 
Temple opened it and walked up the garden path. His 
ring at the bell startled her ; visitors so seldom came to 
the vicarage. She looked up as the maid brought in his 
card, took it from her, and read the name. “ Oh ! ” she 
cried, rising suddenly, and letting her work and book and 
scissors fall on the floor with a crash. She stooped to re- 
cover these properties, and as Gordon advanced from the 
open door, went forward to meet him. She held out her 
hand in welcome ; a deep flush was on her cheeks. ‘‘ I 
didn’t know — it is a great pleasure to see you,” she said. 

The warmth of her greeting surprised Gordon, remem- 
bering, as he did, the shy and indifferent young girl he 
had known three years before at Schlossberg ; but in a 
moment he perceived it was the memories he evoked 
rather than his own personality that excited her cordiality. 
She paused awkwardly enough after her impulsive wel- 


I 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


205 


come, and moved back to her seat ; Gordon followed, and 
pulling a chair forward, sat down opposite to her by the 
tireless hearth. He wished it had not been tireless, for 
the spring afternoon was chilly ; but some people, he 
knew, had traditions about fires, and put out their flames 
as the flowers came in ; possibly his cousin acted on these. 
Elisabeth did not instantly speak ; her color faded and 
then flushed up again as she seemed suddenly to remem- 
ber it was her business to address her visitor. 

I didn't know you were in England ; it is a great pleas- 
ure to see you,” she said again, rather hurriedly. Have 
you come straight from Schlossberg ?” 

“ I have not been to Schlossberg,” he answered ; ‘‘ I ar- 
rived in London from the East about ten days ago. I had 
business there that I was obliged to attend to before going 
home. I shall not be in Schlossberg till the middle of next 
week.” 

‘‘Oh, I am sorry,” said Elisabeth, disappointed; “I 
mean that I hoped you had perhaps brought me news from 
there. It seems such a long time since I saw anyone who 
had been to Schlossberg.” 

“Well, I liave brought you news in a way,” Gordon 
said. “ I heard from Emilia, that is, a few days ago, and 
she gave me a message for you that I hasten to make my 
own, saying how much pleasure your letters give my father. 
It is very good of you to write to him. I thank you very 
much.” 

Elisabeth did not immediately answer ; she sat looking 
down at her fingers lying loosely interlaced in her lap. 
“ It has been a great pleasure to me,” she said at last ; 
“almost the greatest pleasure I have had. Your father is 
very kind. He writes to me also, occasionally a few 
lines himself, sometimes by Emilia, and tells me about 
books and what to read. I can’t always get the books he 
names ; still, I like to know, and now and then he sends 
one.” 

“ Yes, yes, he would like to do that,” said Gordon ; “and 
you can’t do better than to follow his advice. My father 
has lived upon books all his life, and he has the best judg- 
ment of any man I know. He lives less upon them now 
than formerly ; he is too old to fix his mind just in the same 
way ; the life that goes on outside his library to a certain 
extent engages his attention instead. That is why I know 
your letters must give him so much pleasure ; and that 
was why I asked you, as I remember, to go to see him 


2o6 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


sometimes that winter you spent at Schlossberg. You did 
so, 1 know ; and I have often wanted to thank you for it.” 

‘‘ Oh ? ” said Elisabeth, coloring a little, “ that was a very 
long time ago. It seems to me now like another life.” 

‘‘ But not,” he said, smiling, “ a life you have forgotten, 
I hope, since we were all so much concerned in it ?” 

“ Oh, forgotten ! ” she said. She took up her sewing 
that she had laid down, and did a few stitches, but dropped 
it again immediately. She was nervous, Gordon per- 
ceived ; he supposed it might be that his presence there 
was strange, and yet revived a great many familiar mem- 
ories. 

How is Robert?” he inquired with some abruptness. 

Her nervousness left her instantly. The sad familiarity 
of this every-day topic made her answer almost mechani- 
cal. “ He is not very well, thank you,” she answered ; 
“ he did not get on so well as we had hoped this winter at 
Westport, and 1 don’t know that coming back here has 
done him any good yet, though he hoped it might. This 
is rather a bleak and windy place, you know, and our doc- 
tor at Westport did advise our staying on there another 
month. But it worries Robert very much to be away so 
long from his parish ; and so we came home. We have 
been back nearly a month — a fortnight, I mean,” she said, 
correcting herself. 

“ Does he go out ? Can he get about? ” said Gordon. 

Oh, yes ; he goes out every day,” she answered, with 
some surprise, ‘‘ unless the weather is very bad indeed. 
Oh, there is nothing really the matter with him — that is 
what Dr. Fawcett here always says — nothing that could 
not be cured, I mean, if he could only get strong again. 
He was much better the winter before last ; but last 
summer he overworked himself again, and has suffered 
from it ever since.” 

Gordon listened to these dreary commonplaces of an in- 
valid life, that he seemed to have heard a thousand times 
already, and looked at the young face before him. For 
three years that fresh and springing life had been chained 
to that of a hopelessly sick man. What did she think of 
it? Under what aspect did her lot present itself to her 
own eyes ? He felt a great curiosity to know. He looked 
again at Elisabeth. She had grown taller, he had thought 
when he came in ; her figure, whilst retaining its girlish 
slenderness, had taken a somewhat fuller and more defi- 
nite grace ; he thought her greatly improved. She was 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


207 


pale when the color, that came and went so promptly, 
faded ; her beautiful eyes were the same, but her expres- 
sion had gained ; it had acquired depth and meaning, the 
change constantly seen in the face of a young girl after 
two or three years of married life. But she looked sad, 
and Gordon thought — Elisabeth had been less successful 
in her efforts than she had hoped — he thought she had 
been crying. Her dress was as plain as possible ; her 
uncle had died a few months previously, and she still vvore 
tokens of mourning ; a gray gown simply fashioned of 
some woollen material, a little frill, and a black ribbon at 
her throat : a few primroses were thrust loosely into the 
front of her bodice. Gordon glanced at her, then turned 
away his eyes, and presently glanced again. He found 
her very greatly improved. She was still so young — one- 
and-twenty only the other day — that in this secluded dwell- 
ing, this silent, faded room, something still of the rudeness 
of a young girl’s ignorance of life seemed to mingle with 
her later experience, and give it a singular charm. She 
was not the little schoolgirl he had known ; but still less 
was she the conventional, well-regulated mistress of a 
house. Hardly had the first warmth of her welcome died 
away, when something of the shy look he remembered 
came back into her eyes. But it had a peculiar charm, or 
he thought so, in a face that bore the impress of extreme 
intelligence. Elisabeth was charming — that was how she 
struck him ; charming too, through a certain, suggestive- 
ness, something of distinction, of fineness, of difference ; 
and thinking of his cousin Robert, Gordon wondered again 
with what eyes she had come to regard her lot in life. But 
as he could not ask her, he simply replied to her last re- 
mark. 

I can imagine,” he said, ‘Hiow Robert would overwork 
himself if he had the chance. I have always heard what 
an excellent and indefatigable worker he is. Besides,” he 
added, good-humoredly, with the frank criticism of a near 
relative, ‘‘he is rather an obstinate fellow, I take it. There 
would be no moving him when he had once set his mind 
on a thing.” 

She made no reply whatever to this. Her silence dis- 
concerted Gordon, who had spoken good-naturedly and 
thoughtlessly enough, and perceived he might have 
stumbled upon a serious criticism. He was searching his 
brains for some remark with which to cover his awkward- 
ness, when she rose with some abruptness. 


2o8 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


‘‘I will tell Robert you are here,” she said; he will 
like to know.” 

She moved toward the door and opened it, then paused 
and turned, still holding the handle. 

“I beg your pardon,” she said, confusedly; ‘‘I ought, 
perhaps, to have asked — I ought to have told you. It is 
so good of you to come and see us ; no one has ever come 
before. But did you know what an out-of-the way place 
this is, and how difficult it is to get away from ? There is no 
train back to town to-night, and to-morrow being Sunday, 
there will not be one either until late in the afternoon.” 

Gordon stared. He did not in the least catch her mean- 
ing for the moment ; he could only suppose himself, as he 
had apprehended beforehand might be the case, an unwel- 
come visitor. 

^‘My dear Mrs. Holland,” he said, ‘H did study my 
Bradshaw carefully before I came down. But don’t 
imagine I am going to inflict myself upon Robert more 
than he quite likes. I dare say he is not always in the 
mood for visitors, and I am so fond of the country that a 
spring day and a long walk are the most delightful diver- 
sion possible to me.” 

Elisabeth stared in her turn. 

“Oh ! how could you think I meant that ?” she cried, 
with an accent of the utmost sincerity, suddenly perceiv- 
ing the intention of his words. She closed the door behind 
her, and came back a few paces into the room. “ I only 
meant that this place is so dull, and on Sunday especially, 
that I couldn’t imagine how anyone could care to stay 
here. You don’t know how welcome a visitor is.” 

“Well,” said Gordon, smiling, and with a good deal less 
of sincerity, “I suppose I may have flattered myself with 
some idea of the kind in coming down. At any rate, I 
promised myself a great deal of pleasure ; that is how I 
came prepared for a twenty-four hours’ stay, and have 
brought a bag with me that has found very comfortable 
quarters at the inn.” 

“ At the Roebuck ? But that is a very little place,” said 
Elisabeth ; “ I am afraid you won’t be at all comfortable 
there. We might — I am sure we might give you a room 
here. I will speak to Robert.” 

She vanished from the room without waiting for an 
answer. Gordon heard her voice giving some order to 
the maid, and then her light step as she ran quickly up the 
stairs. The house ^truck him, also, as extraordinarily 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


2og 


still ; he could not hear a sound except the clock ticking 
in the hall. Then a man with clanking pails passed the 
window along the path by the laurel hedge, and directly 
afterward the red-cheeked girl came in to put a match to 
the fire, which was ready laid. She retired again, leaving 
Gordon to the entertainment of the crackling wood. He 
looked round the room, which, cheered by the brightening 
flames, presented an aspect less frigid than on his en- 
trance. He looked at everything — at the worsted-work 
screens, the washed-out chintz, the alabaster clock, the po- 
lite bookcase. There were gaps here and there in the 
shelves, left by volumes that had strayed on to the centre- 
table. Gordon took these up one after another to examine 
them. A volume of Wordsworth, a volume of ^‘Paradise 
Lost,” a pictorial annual with steel-engraved views of Italy, 
a volume of Dr. Johnson's “Lives of the Poets this ad- 
mirable but unexhilarating literature had apparently been 
culled from the decorous shelves by the mistress of the 
house for her mental improvement. A more modern 
touch was imparted by a German periodical containing 
some account of the expedition in which Gordon Tem- 
ple had been engaged — sent, the young man supposed, by 
his father — and a lighter one by the volume of Walter 
Scott that lay by Elisabeth's work-box. Certainly, it was 
not a cheerful room. The clock ticked in the hall, the 
silence brooded. There seemed nothing quite alive but 
the crackling flames and the fresh scent of the primroses. 

Presently Elisabeth came back. It struck him — but he 
might have been mistaken — that her cheeks were flushed, 
her lips a little tremulous. She spoke, however, without 
hesitation. 

“ My husband will be down directly,” she said. “ And 
I am so vex — so sorry,” — she corrected the word immedi- 
ately — “but the house is so dismantled that Robert thinks 
it would be impossible to give you a room where you 
would be at all comfortable. He will explain to you ” 

“ Don’t speak of it,” said Gordon, sorry for her. “ I 
assure you, my dear^Mrs. Holland, I never for one mo- 
ment contemplated the atrocity of quartering myself upon 
you. I know what it is when people have to move about 
as much as you do ; one camps, one doesn't settle. I dare 
say you yourself feel very much as if you were living in 
an hotel here.” 

“ I don't think it's so pleasant as that,” she said, smiling 
a little. She went back to her seat, and took up her work 


210 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


again. “ Robert will be down directly,” she repeated. 
“ He has taken a room up-stairs for his study ; it opens out 
of his bedroom, and is more convenient.” 

I hope I am not disturbing him ? ” said her compan- 
ion. “ Perhaps he is writing his sermon or something, as 
it is Saturday.” 

“Oh, no!” said Elisabeth, with a startled look; “he 
never preaches. There is nothing the doctors have for- 
bidden so strictly as that. It would exhaust him too much.” 
She paused. “ I have never heard my husband preach 
but once,” she said, slowly ; “ it was one Sunday at Schloss- 
berg before our marriage, more than three years ago.” 

The words were simple, but spoken with an undefinable 
accent. It was not mere regret, not mere disappoint- 
ment ; her companion had no clew to the feeling it might 
express. Whatever it might be, she offered no interpreta- 
tion, but spoke again instantly in a direct reaction from 
her last words. 

“I think,” she said, “no one could Iiave been so good as 
Robert has been about giving up preaching, for he cared 
about it very much. He was a very good preacher. It is 
not only I who say so,” she said, coloring a little, “ I have 
only, as I said, heard him once : everyone says so.” 

“Yes, yes ; I am sure of it,” said Gordon. “I remember 
that occasion at Schlossberg — I don’t mean that I heard 
him, but I remember my cousin Emilia speaking at the 
time of her brother’s sermon. It impressed her very 
much. It must be a great trial to him to have to give it 
all up. But lie can still attend to parish work, you say?” 

“Yes; sometimes he can. And it is good for him in 
moderation, the doctor says ; it is an interest for him. You 
know,” Elisabeth said, looking up and smiling, “life is 
very quiet here, and not very interesting for him outside 
his work.” 

“ Ah, that is a pity ! ” said Gordon, rather vaguely. 
“ Something to distract his mind — that would be better, I 
dare say. How about Westport ? Is that more amusing 
for him ?” 

“Yes; in some ways he finds it more amusing. There 
is more society ; there are a good many tea-parties, you 
know. We can go to them when he is well enough.” 

“ Robert likes them ?” said Gordon. 

“ Yes ; he likes them. And it is good for him to have 
anything that diverts his thoughts a little. That is why 
we go. We go to a good many.” 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


211 


“ In short,” said her companion, smiling, you spend the 
winter in a round of gayety.” 

‘‘ Oh ! ” cried Elisabeth, roused to irrepressible utter- 
ance by the deadly irony of this speech, if you knew 
how terribly dull they are ! ” She checked herself, and at 
the same moment a passing shadow darkened the window 
outside. The hall-door was opened and shut as by one 
familiar with the house, and the next minute a rap came 
at the parlor-door. 

“ Is Mr. Holland here ? ” said someone, opening it and 
looking in. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

INTRODUCES DULCIE. 

Elisabeth jumped up at the words. The new-comer, a 
young girl of about her own age apparently, had put her 
head in at the door, displaying beneath the circumference 
of a black felt hat a pair of bright eyes, a pair of fair 
cheeks, a pair of fresh red lips. She gave a rapid glance 
round the room. 

“ He is not here ? ” she said. 

“ My husband is up-stairs. Til tell him,’* said Elisabeth, ' 
moving toward the door. 

“ No, no, don’t trouble,” cried the young girl. If he is 
in the study, I can find him.” 

She shut the door and was gone. Elisabeth stood irre- 
solute for a moment ; then, crossing the room with rapid 
step, opened the door and stood with the handle in her 
hand. The click of a closing lock was heard from the 
landing above. She let her hand fall, slowly pushed the 
door to, and came back to her seat. 

“ I am sorry,” she said, sitting down again ; ‘H am afraid 
Robert may be detained some time now.” 

“That young lady has perhaps come on business,” Gor- 
don suggested. 

“ Yes ; I suppose so.” She sat perfectly silejit for awhile. 
There was — her visitor might have been justified in re- 
marking — a surprising mixture of diffidence and want of 
ceremony in her manner. In a moment, however, she 
rallied her attention. “ That was Dulcie Fawcett,” she 
said, “ the daughter of our old doctor, She has lived here 


212 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


all her life, and knows everyone ; and my husband finds 
her very useful in helping him. We are so much away 
that I don’t know about things as she does. I’m not so 
clever about them, either,” Elisabeth went on ingenuously. 
“ I never can take a class properly in the Sunday-school — 
the children seem to know everything I can tell them 
already ; and I don’t like ordering the poor people about 
— it seems to me impertinent. I suppose it isn’t really, if 
you do it the right way. Miss Fawcett does.” 

“ These are dreadful confessions for a vicar’s wife,” said 
Gordon, smiling. 

Oh, I know — ” she said, and suddenly stopped, flush- 
ing a deep red. Gordon began to divine some complica- 
tion, and to be extremely interested. She changed the 
conversation abruptly, shaking her head as if to shake 
some importunate thought away. I have been reading — ” 
she began, with a transition to her odd, shy manner. ‘‘ I 
have been so much interested in reading,” she resumed, 
“a paper in that Review your father was good enough to 
send me, about your travels in the East. I hope you suc- 
ceeded in accomplishing all you wanted to do.” 

Well, not entirely,” he said. Still, considering the 
difficulties in the way, we — my companion and myself — 
were tolerably successful, I think. We went to hunt up 
dialects, you know, in some of those out-of-the-way dis- 
tricts to the north of Persia.” 

I know,” said Elisabeth, ‘Tt tells one something about 
it in the Review; you have seen the article, I dare say.” 

‘‘ Well, no, I can’t say I have.” He took the Review 
from the table and began turning it over. It seems full 
of mistakes,” he said. I know the man who wrote it ; he’s 
a very good fellow, and he pays me several handsome 
compliments, I see ; but I don’t think he has any very 
special knowledge of the subject. However, it doesn’t 
much matter.” 

“It is full of mistakes? Oh, I am sorry!” said Elisa- 
beth. “ I thought it so interesting. Would you mind 
telling me what they are ? ” 

“ That would bore you, I am afraid,” said Gordon, good- 
naturedly. 

“ Oh, no, I should like it — it would interest me very 
much,” she said, “ unless it would bore you.” 

“ Me ? On the contrary,” he answered ; “ what can be 
more delightful than to find someone else all in the wrong ? 
In the first place he’s gone astray in some of his locali- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


213 


ties, and small blame to him ; but if you have an atlas, 
Mrs. Holland, I believe I can make you understand our 
route.” 

“An atlas?” said Elisabeth, rather vaguely. She went 
to the bookcase and glanced up and down the shelves. 
“There is not one here,” she said, turning round. “I 
think there must be one up-stairs in the study ; Til go and 
fetch it.” She moved to the door as she spoke ; then 
stopped short. “ Perhaps I had better wait,” she said, 
“ Miss Fawcett has called, I suppose, to go through some 
parish accounts ; and Robert always dislikes being dis- 
turbed when he is busy with accounts. I will fetch it 
presently, if you don’t mind.” 

“ It is no matter whatever,” he said. “ I dare say I can 
explain without; I have travelled over the ground pretty 
often in every sense.” He began his explanation with a 
brief passing wonder as to whether her husband had made 
her afraid to disturb him. Elisabeth listened with extreme 
attention ; now and then she asked a question ; her inter- 
est drew Gordon on. He found it delightful — as who 
would not ? — to talk of his work to a charmed and charm- 
ing listener. All at once the gilt-faced clock on the man- 
telpiece struck a half-hour. Elisabeth looked up startled, 
and sprang to her feet. 

“ I beg your pardon,” she said, “ but I think I will go 
and fetch the atlas now. It is so bad for Robert to occupy 
himself too long with business. No, there he is,” she 
added immediately, dropping again into her chair. Voices 
and footsteps were heard in the hall outside. The sitting- 
room door opened. “Well, well, run home now, if you 
must, but come back to supper,” the vicar of Thornton 
Briars could be heard saying ; the next moment he en- 
tered the room alone. 

He entered with the dragging, invalid gait that ill-health 
had made a habit with him ; and his cousin, who had not 
seen him for more than* three years, was shocked by the 
change in his appearance ; to him he had the air of a dying 
man. His face and hands were of an extreme pallor ; his 
grizzled hair and beard were grown thin ; his clothes hung 
loosely about him. Elisabeth sprang up again on his en- 
trance, and went forward as though to aid his faltering 
steps ; but she only pulled forward a large armchair. He 
held out his hand to his cousin with a sort of cold languor, 
and sank at once into the seat. 

“ How are you, Gordon ?” he said. “ My dear,” he went 


214 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


on, without waiting for an answer, ^^that is not much of a 
fire you have there.” 

“ Oh, I am sorry,” said Elisabeth, taking some logs from 
a basket and hastening to throw them on. I was afraid 
you might find the room too warm.” 

‘‘ No, no,” he said, leaning forward and spreading 
out his hands. ‘‘I like a cheerful blaze as the evening 
draws in ; and I see no reason why we shouldn’t have one, 
as we have the wood given us — no reason at all.” 

“That sounds like a very neighborly gift,” said Gordon, 
by way of saying something. 

“Yes, the Squire supplies us with wood, so there’s no 
reason why we shouldn’t burn it. That is economy in the 
wrong place.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching out 
his feet to the warmth, and there was a minute’s silence. 
It was broken by Elisabeth. 

“ Mr. Temple is going to Schlossberg next week, 
Robert,” she said. 

“ Going to Schlossberg, eh ? ” said her husband, without 
moving. “ Well, now, there are few places I would not 
rather go to than to Schlossberg.” 

“ Ah, we all regret that,” said Gordon. He rose and 
stood with his arm resting on the mantelpiece. “ Emilia 
would have been so glad to welcome you there from time 
to time,” he said ; “it has been a disappointment to her 
that you could never be persuaded to come. Perhaps 
Otto will be more fortunate. I hear he has offered you 
the use of his house in Venice next month.” 

“ Oh ! ” cried Elisabeth, starting forward. The color 
rushed to her cheeks. “ Oh, have you accepted, Robert ? 
Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“ There it is ; you oughtn’t to have been told, now,” said 
Mr. Holland, smoothing down his mustache and beard 
with one finger. “My wife is always like a child with a 
treat in prospect,” he said, addressing his cousin directly 
for the first time ; “ it is best not to tantalize her before- 
hand.” 

Elisabeth made no response ; she colored more deeply, 
and leaned back in her chair. 

“ I am sorry, Gordon,” Mr. Holland pursued, without 
change of tone, “ not to be able to put you up here ; but 
you won’t find yourself uncomfortable at the inn. It is 
kept by very respectable people, and their charges are 
moderate, I believe.” 

Gordon swallowed a laugh. “ It doesn’t look,” he said. 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


215 


like a place for reckless expenditure, certainly ; but it 
looks extremely comfortable. I have a little bedroom I 
don’t feel worthy to sleep in, all white dimity and laven- 
der. As for taking me in here, don’t, of course, trouble 
yourself about it for one moment. In fact, Mrs. Holland 
and I have settled about all that already.” 

“ Ah, you have settled about it ! ” said Mr. Holland, turn- 
ing his eyes on his wife. He was silent for a moment. 
“You will stay to supper, of course,” he said then ; “that 
is, if you can put up with our plain ways. We dine early 
and sup at eight. Those are not the hours you are accus- 
tomed to, I presume, and my invalid habits, not to speak 
of other considerations, compel me to be simple in my 
diet. But you won’t expect luxury in a country vicarage, 
and what there is, is very much at your service. My dear, 
I hope you have enough supper for us all ?” 

“ I — I don’t know,” said Elisabeth, looking rather 
scared. Her thoughts had been elsewhere ; she had not 
heard a word of her husband’s last speech. 

“ Because my cousin will give us the pleasure of his 
company ; and I have asked Dulcie Fawcett to come in 
also. Not that I am on ceremony with her,” he added, 
turning to Gordon ; “ she is a good little girl, and under- 
stands our plain ways.” 

“ Pray don’t stand on cermony with me, either,” said 
Gordon, feeling rather uncomfortable. He would willingly 
have declined the invitation, but the way in which it had 
been put made it difficult to do so. “ You must remember,” 
he said, “ that I am a traveller, and understand plain ways 
as well as anyone. Don’t, I entreat you,” he added, awk- 
wardly enough, to Elisabeth, who had started up — “don’t 
give yourself any trouble on my account.” 

“ It is no trouble at all,” she said, rather confusedly ; 
“ but I think I had better go and see.” And she left the 
room, animated by a lively consciousness of the three 
poached eggs and mess of boiled rice and milk that, with- 
out her active interference, would alone grace the supper- 
board at eight o’clock. 

My heroine’s establishment at this period of her liistory 
consisted of one maid, who united in herself the functions 
of cook, parlor-maid and house-maid, and of a man who 
did the rough jobs in and out of doors. She had in pre- 
vious summers had at her command a larger suit of atten- 
dants ; but Mr. Holland, on their return home some two 
or three weeks previously, had decided that, with their 


2i6 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


present simple style of living, the whiling and active Jane, 
who left them each year during the winter, pledging her- 
self to return to them for the summer, would suffice for all 
their needs. Two-thirds of the rooms, therefore, were shut 
up — the vicarage was rather a rambling structure within, 
though presenting a substantial front to the world without 
— and the rosy-cheeked young woman who had opened the 
door to Gordon ruled sole occupant of the kitchen. Elisa- 
beth, on entering that cheerful apartment, found her hand- 
maid engaged in the confection of a Sunday cap, the rice 
having been set down to boil, and the moment not yet 
having arrived for poaching the eggs. The kitchen had a 
cheerful air, as kitchens are wont to have, with their ruddy 
ample blaze lighting up the whiteness of the plain deal 
furniture and the rows of blue crockery. Nevertheless, it 
struck Elisabeth with a certain sense of bareness as she 
came in — perhaps a chill reflection from her consciousness 
of a somewhat bare larder beyond. 

^^Jane,” she said, ^Gvhat is there we can have for sup- 
per ? 

Lor, mum,'’ said that willing damsel, looking up, 

there’s wdiat there always is. You know master don’t 
like no change. I can’t think how he, nor you neither, 
mum, can go on day after day, week in, w'eek out, like 
that. Only you do eat so little, both on you.” 

“ Oh, I eat plenty,” said Elisabeth, smiling a little. It 
is I who eat it almost all, I am afraid ; and I don’t mind 
what we have so long as it suits your master. Only we 
must have something else to-night, because Mr. Temple is 
here. What is there ? ” 

“There ain’t nothing, mum,” said the perplexed Jane. 
“ We finished up every scrap at dinner to-day. There’s 
the chicken that is to roast for to-morrow’s dinner, and 
that’s all. You know master don’t like ever to have more 
than is just necessary ; he says it makes so much waste.” 

“ I know, I know,” said Elisabeth, hastily. She leant 
against the high mantelpiece, gazing blankly before her. 

“ I wish ” she began, but left the phrase unfinished. 

Jane, meanwhile, exercised her more fertile imagination. 

“ There’s eggs, mum,” she pursued; “ w’e always have 
two or three of them extra, because of Miss Dulcie’s com- 
ing in so often. I could poach two or three more of 
them if that ’d do ; or I could boil one or two to make a 
change.” 

“Oh, no,” said Elisabeth, with a movement of impa- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


217 


tience. ‘‘I can't ask Mr. Temple to sit down to supper on 
eggs and boiled rice and milk. You must just run down 
to the butcher’s, Jane, and ask him to let us have anything 
he has got; chops or — or anything.” 

'‘But there ain’t time, mum,” said Jane, blankly, in her 
turn. " It’s ten good minutes to go, and ten to return, 
and it wants but twenty minutes or so of eight now, and 
master can’t bear to be kept waiting a minute. If I’d 
known a bit earlier, we could ha’ had anything.” 

" Well, well, we didn’t know,” said Elisabeth, quickly. 
"And certainly your master mustn’t be kept waiting, it 
exhausts him so much.” She stood lost in despondency 
for a minute. " I know,” she said then, fired with an in- 
spiration ; " I will run down the hill to Ashtree Farm, and 
borrow a pie of Mrs. Dawson ; she always bakes on Sat- 
urday for the week, I know, and she is so good-natured, 
she won’t mind. We can pay her back next week.” 

"Shan’t I go, mum?” said Jane. "You’ll find the pie 
heavy to carry. I’m afraid. Mrs. Dawson’s pies are like 
that. You might throw ’em against a stone wall and it’d 
make no difference.” 

"No, no, it doesn’t matter, and I’d better go,” said Elis- 
abeth. " It won’t take me five minutes to run there, and 
you must look after the supper, Jane. I shall be back in 
plenty of time.” 

She left the kitchen, took her hat from a peg in the hall, 
and running down the garden-path and out at the gate, 
began to cross the heathery common to where a steep, 
furze-grown lane, descending to fertile hollows, led to 
Ashtree Farm. She was hardly ten yards from the house, 
however, when her rapid progress was checked by a lady in a 
long cloak and a brown straw hat tied under her chin, who 
approached her over the hillocks from an opposite direc- 
tion. Elisabeth recognized her through the thickening 
dusk ; it was Mrs. Fawcett, the wife of the village doctor. 

"Ah, good evening, Mrs. Holland,” she said ; "can you 
tell me if Dulcie is still at the vicarage ?’' 

"She is not there now,’' said Elisabeth, checking her 
rapid steps, and pausing in an attitude of suspense ; "but 
she is coming back, I believe, to supper at eight.” 

"Ah, that is what I thought probable,” murmured the 
lady. "You and Mr. Holland are so kind — so very kind 
in inviting her. Dulcie says she feels quite at home in 
your house. We are very willing that she should go, you 
know ; still, we are alwavs pleased when she spends an 


2i8 


THE FAIL C/EE OF ELISABETH 


evening at home.’' Dulcie’s mamma paused, and stood 
gazing rather vaguely at the sky. She was a small woman, 
between forty and fifty, with a long nose and a vague and 
eager eye. ‘‘You are in a hurry,” she said suddenly to 
Elisabeth. “Well, I will give myself the pleasure of walk- 
ing a few steps with you. I wished to ask you, my dear 
Mrs. Holland, if you could request the vicar to persuade 
Dulcie to give up some of her parish work. It isn't that 
she does so much ; that's just where it is — she does so 
little!” 

Mrs. Fawcett paused, but she did not wait for an answer, 
which, indeed, Elisabeth was not ready in giving. 

“She does so little,'’ the doctor's wife resumed. “That 
is, she takes it up and drops it again, and it is so very in- 
convenient, my dear Mrs. Holland. I have the doctor’s 
shirts and socks to look after, of course, and he is partic- 
ular about his cooking, too ; and then I like to keep up an 
intelligent interest in the events of the day. In a little 
out-of-the-way place like this, it is so necessary. I assure 
you, that though I never pay visits, I never have an hour 
unoccupied. And then when Dulcie neglects her parish 
work, it comes upon me. I can’t let everything go wrong ; 
you can understand that, my dear Mrs. Holland ; but it is 
so very inconvenient ! If the Vicar could only persuade 
her to let Miss Myles do it instead! Miss Myles is a very 
capable person, and most willing, I am sure.” 

“Oh, I am sorry,” said Elisabeth. She was silent for a 
minute. “I suppose it is my business, really,” she said ; 
“ if we were always at home, it is I who ought to do it.” 

“ My dear, you are very little at home, and you have 
your husband to look after,” said Mrs. Fawcett, reasonably. 
“ Of course there are drawbacks when the Vicar is away 
most of the year, but that has nothing to do with Dulcie. 
Mr. Richards is a most excellent young man, but Dulcie 
doesn’t find him an incentive ; that is what it is ; she is used 
to him, and he is engaged to be married, and that always 
makes a man dull, she says. Now, Mr. Holland is an in- 
centive, and when he is at home, she likes doing the work ; 
but he is away all the winter, and then it comes upon me. 
It isn’t that she’s not clever enough,” Dulcie’s mother con- 
tinued. “ It often surprises me, when she takes up the 
books again, to see how she runs through all the accounts 
and gets them into her head in half an hour or so. Of 
course the Vicar’s an incentive, Dulcie has always been 
fond of him ; but I don’t suppose he knows how very in- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


219 


convenient it is to me ! If he would only tell Dulcie she 
had better hand over her books once and for all to Miss 
Myles, I dare say she might attend to him. It is of no use 
my speaking to her. You will find that out for yourself 
some day, my dear, when you have a daughter old — taller, 
I mean, than yourself, who likes her own way ; what you 
say will have very little effect upon her, you'll find. She 
will do as she likes.” 

Mrs. Fawcett gave a small laugh with these last words, 
as if to qualify their severity. Elisabeth did not laugh ; 
she stood looking straight before her for a moment rather 
drearily. 

I am sorry,” she said again. I — I don’t think I can 

do anything, Mrs. Fawcett.” She fell into awkward silence. 

^‘Ah, well, never mind, my dear,” said Mrs. Fawcett, 
relapsing into vagueness, and looking about her. “ Don’t 
trouble yourself ; it doesn’t matter, you know. Perhaps I 
may see the Vicar myself some day. My kind regards to 
him, my dear Mrs. Holland ; I am sorry always to hear 
how far from strong he is. Good-by, my dear. I wish 
I had time to see more of you ; but you’re busy and Pm 
busy, and that is how it is.” 

‘‘ I know,” said Elisabeth, who in fact saw Mrs. Fawcett 
hardly half a dozen times in the course of the year. She 
left her now, and ran quickly down the lane to Ashtree 
Farm. It was long past sunset, and twilight filled the 
hollow. She hastened on to where a light gleaming from 
a lattice through the trees showed the farmhouse standing 
among ricks and barns. 

Gordon Temple, who had returned to his inn to make 
some brief toilet before appearing at Mrs. Holland’s sup- 
per table, was surprised, as he emerged from the village 
street, to see his hostess preceding him on the way to the 
vicarage across the dusky heath. She was walking quick- 
ly, yet with a certain halting step which explained itself 
only when he approached near enough to perceive that she 
was supporting with both hands a burthen enveloped in 
a cloth. He wondered what she could be carrying ; he 
had begun to wonder several things about her ; he felt a 
great curiosity concerning her life. The sentiment he had 
expressed in regard to her marriage three years ago re- 
turned upon him with redoubled force ; he felt that it 
ought to have been prevented ; it was not clear to him 
that he ought not to have prevented it himself. Gordon 
did not like his cousin, and he held that he had reasons 


220 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


that justified his dislike. He was one of the very few 
people who had known of that early lapse that had threat- 
ened to break Robert Holland’s life in two ; it was he, in 
fact, who lent the money that had helped to rescue the 
young man from the hideous dilemma in which he had 
placed himself. Robert, driven to his wits’ end, urged by 
the most wretched despair, had had recourse to his cousin 
Gordon as the only man from whom he could reasonably 
look for help. Why should not Gordon help him ? He 
was rolling in riches ; it was his business to help him ; that 
was how he put it. He went straight to his cousin — Gor- 
don, who was then at Cambridge, happened fortunately to 
have come up to London for the Easter vacation — and 
almost demanded the loan of two or three hundred pounds. 
Gordon lent them willingly enough ; it mattered little to 
him, in fact, one way or the other, in those days. Need- 
less to say that Robert Holland made no explanation of 
the purpose for which he required the money ; but it was 
revealed to Gordon by a simple accident, of which the 
details do not concern us here. He had never known — 
he did not know to this day — whether Robert was informed 
of this untoward knowledge of his or not. He supposed 
not ; yet sometimes he suspected that he was. The knowl- 
edge in itself, as of an isolated fact, would have made little 
difference finally in Gordon’s estimate of his cousin ; a 
man, he held, might fall and repent and rise again, and be 
as good a man or a better man than before. What he 
could not get over, as the phrase is, was the fact that 
Robert made no effort 'whatever to repay the money. It 
was not that he wanted the debt paid ; he cared nothing 
for that ; it was that he felt a man of honor would have 
sacrificed everything to wipe off the least stain clinging 
to him from so odious a catastrophe. He could not, of 
course, have paid it at once ; but at the end of ten years 
the debt remained, not repudiated — on the contrary, there 
was some small interest that Gordon might always claim 
— but unpaid by so much as a single shilling. By degrees 
Gordon came to understand that he did not consider his 
honor involved in paying it at all ; and then it was that his 
opinion of his cousin, an opinion confirmed by a hundred 
sorry coincidences, became definitely fixed. 


THE TAIL C/EE OF ELISABETH 


221 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

A SUPPER-PARTY. 

Of course he knew that he could not have prevented the 
marriage ; it was no business of his to rake up that miser- 
able scandal and drag it across Robert Holland’s path; but 
he had felt sorry then for the young girl ; he felt profound- 
ly sorry for her now. He overtook Elisabeth where the 
road, rising as it parted from the village street to cross the 
moorland, afforded that unbroken view of the immense 
sweep of down and sky that had claimed his admiration 
a couple of hours previously. Fold after fold of misty 
gray, confounding the long rolling dip and rise of the lines 
of hill in one great dimness beneath the gathering night, 
reached now to the horizon. Lights twinkled from 
farm or hamlet, lying deep here and there in some darkling 
hollow ; but up above not a gleam from the vast palpitating 
vault of heaven was lost, from the faint throbbing of the 
stars that quivered through the gray into the light, to the 
last far-withdrawn glow from the receding day, lingering 
below heavy rain-clouds on the western horizon. Elisa- 
beth, arrived at this point, halted a moment to re-adjust 
the burthen she carried, before hurrying along the remain- 
ing strip of road that led to the vicarage gate. She gave a 
start as Gordon, coming up behind, accosted her. 

“Allow me to carry that for you up to the house,” he 
said, with a sense of large indefiniteness in the pronoun. 
It might have been a baby she was conveying with so 
much care. 

“ Oh no, thank you,” said Elisabeth, rather flurried ; “ I 
can manage very well.” As she spoke, the cloth, slipping 
on to the ground, left revealed an immense pie. Mrs. 
Dawson had eight sturdy children, and would have regard- 
ed anything short of about a yard of pie-crust as a frivol- 
ity hardly worth baking. Elisabeth stood crimson and 
helpless ; she considered the moment tragic. Her com- 
panion picked up the cloth with which the farmer’s wife 
had enveloped this trophy of her culinary skill. 

“What a splendid pie ! ” he said, not quite knowing what 
to say ; “ I wish you would let me carry it for you.” 

“No, indeed, thank you,” said Elisabeth, hurriedly; “it 
is only a little way now ; I don’t mind.” 


222 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


She walked on quickly with Gordon at her side. He 
did not repeat his offer, though he found a certain embar- 
rassment in walking empty-handed beside a charming young 
woman weighed down by what appeared to be about a ton 
of pie-crust. If, as is probable, he thought his cousin’s 
style of house-keeping primitive, he naturally kept the re- 
flection to himself. When he spoke it was to comment on 
the beauty of the evening and the view. 

“ You spoke of this as a bleak and windy place,” he said ; 
“but it has no appearance or feeling of bleakness now. 
One has to come to England for an evening and a view 
like this — this long mild twiliglit, and a view at once so 
wide and so homelike.” 

“Now — oh, yes, it is pleasant now,” said Elisabeth. She 
stood still a moment, looking a little wistfully across the 
twilight country to the dim horizon. “We always have 
warm days like these in April,” she said; “it is in May 
and June that it is so cold here. There is no protection 
from the east winds, and Robert feels them very much.” 

They had reached the vicarage gate. As Gordon opened 
it and stood aside to let her pass, “What do you think of 
this Venice scheme ? ” he said. 

He had no sooner spoken the words than he was con- 
scious of an indiscretion. Elisabeth did not immediately 
answer. “ I don’t think of it at all,” she said at last, in an 
odd, curt voice. She spoke no more till they were enter- 
ing the house. “ I never like, you know,” she said then, 
modifying her words with a fleeting, diffident smile, “ to 
think beforehand about anything I wish for very much ; it 
is too disappointing when one is disappointed.” 

She set down her pie on a chair, crossed the hall, and 
opened the sitting-room door. “ Will you excuse me ? ” 
she said to Gordon. “ You will find Robert in here, and 
Miss Fawcett, I think. I will be down in five minutes.” 

She vanished through a swing door. The drawing- 
room, Gordon found on entering, was lighted only 
by the flickering flames of the wood fire, that made a 
ruddy and fitful illumination, revealing Mr. Holland 
stretched out in a big armchair on one side of the hearth, 
and the young lady of whom Gordon had already liad a 
passing glimpse seated in Elisabeth’s chair on the other. 
Mr. Holland at once effected an introduction. He 
seemed in a less constrained, a more genial mood than 
half an hour previously. 

“My cousin, Gordon Temple, Miss Fawcett,” he said. 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


223 


^‘Miss Fawcett,” he continued in a voice of great kindness, 
‘‘is my right hand in the parish — my second curate. I 
don’t know what I sliould do without her.” 

“ Oh, no, not all that !” said the young lady, in modest 
deprecation ; “of course I am glad to do what I can.” 

“That must be very delightful for you,” said Gordon, 
addressing his cousin, as he moved a chair forward and 
seated himself. “In your long absences from the parish 
it must be a great comfort to you to know that you have 
an efficient substitute.” 

“ Oh, no, not all that ! ” said the young lady again, with 
a laugh. She twirled an old-fashioned handscreen that 
she had taken from the high mantelpiece as she spoke ; but 
Gordon, looking at her, perceived that she was quite self- 
possessed. She ^was rather pretty, he saw, the firelight 
revealing her fea*tures with sufficient distinctness; her face 
was a little thin, but fair and fresh-colored ; her smooth 
light hair was drawn back and twisted in a thick coil at 
the back of her head ; her eyes were bright, though rather 
small, and very restless. Her whole person was restless ; 
her hand wandered over her dress ; she was constantly ad- 
justing a fold or pulling out a frill. Gordon addressed 
himself to her. 

“You have a delightful country here in which to exer- 
cise your — your profession,” he said, with a smile ; “ I was 
admiring the view just now as I came along.” 

“Oh, yes, it is a beautiful view ; everyone admires it,” 
said Miss Fawcett ; “ I am glad you like it, too. I love 
Thornton Briars ; I was born here, you know ; though, of 
course, it is a little out of the world. That will have 
struck you, I dare say.” 

“ Oh, no doubt ; a village ten miles distant from a 
station is considered a good deal out of the world,” said 
Gordon ; “ though, after all, nothing is very much out of 
the world in these days — hardly enough so, as a rule ; one 
doesn’t get variety enough ; everything is too much like 
everything else.” 

“Well, there is something pleasant about that, too,” 
said Miss Fawcett, glancing from Gordon to Mr. Holland ; 
“ I mean, it is pleasant to think that if one ever were to 
leave home, one would not feel quite astray in the world. 
If I ever go abroad — I long to go abroad — I shall always 
like everything that reminds me of Thornton Briars.” 

“Ah, well, don’t be in a hurry, my dear,” said Mr. Hol- 
land. “Young people are in too great a hurry to leave 


224 


THE FAIL CEE OF ELISABETH. 


their homes in these days. Home is the best place for 
them, depend upon it.” 

“ Oh, that is what I say ; I love home better than any- 
thing,” said Miss Dulcie. ‘‘Still, one does long to see 
something of the world sometimes; don’t you think so?” 
she said, appealing to Gordon. 

“I suppose I do,” he said, smiling, “as I began to travel 
ten years ago, and have been travelling more or less ever 
since. Sometimes now, though, I begin to think a settled 
home would be pleasant for a change.” 

“ Do you really ?” she said. She kept glancing from the 
fire to Gordon, and back to the fire again ; now she sat 
considering for a moment, her eyes fixed on the flames. 
“Yes, I can imagine that,” she said, after that moment of 
deliberation. “ After so many )^ears of wandering, a set- 
tled home must seem delightful. I think I can imagine 
just the sort of home that you would like.” 

Gordon broke into a laugh. “That is very clever of 
you,” he said; “for, to tell you the truth, I have given 
hardly ten minutes’ thought to the subject.” 

The young girl laughed also, and her laugh seemed to 
show that she quite appreciated the estimate Gordon had 
formed of her cleverness. She seemed to be a young lady 
who got over the preliminaries of an acquaintanceship 
very rapidly. “Oh, I meant, of course, the sort of home 
that would suit anyone who had been wandering a great 
deal about the world,” she said ; “something not too large 
or splendid ; something home-like, and intime like this.” 
She rose from her seat as she spoke, and replaced her 
hand-screen on the mantelpiece as Mr. Holland slowly 
lifted himself from his armchair and stood up. 

“ I don’t know where my wife is,” he said. “ She will 
be down directly, I suppose ; but we will not wait for her. 
I hear eight striking, and supper is ready, I have no doubt. 
We needn’t stand on ceremony. Come, Dulcie, my dear.” 

He moved toward the door as he spoke ; Miss Fawcett 
followed him, and Gordon — he was wondering where Miss 
Dulcie had got hold of the word intime., which she pro- 
nounced very badly — could do no less, though the want of 
ceremony implied in going in to supper without the mis- 
tress of the house seemed to him excessive. At that mo- 
ment, however, the door opened and Elisabeth appeared. 

“ Supper is ready,” she said ; “ shall we go into the 
dining-room ? ” 

They crossed the entry, and entered a room of a curU 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


225 


ously uninviting aspect. It was chilly, for the fire had 
only recently been lighted ; and the substantial furniture, 
of the same date as that of the sitting-room, presented a 
heavy monotony of black horse hair and mahogany, unre- 
lieved by any livelier tint than that of the dark-green 
moreen curtains that hung before the windows. The 
genius of inhospitality seemed to preside over this dreary 
apartment, originally dedicated to social festivities ; it was 
impossible to imagine it could ever have been the scene of 
a cordial welcome or a genial repast. A small petroleum 
lamp, with a blue glass stem and an imitation bronze stand, 
illuminated that feast with whose preparation we are ac- 
quainted — the dish of poached eggs, the boiled rice and 
milk, the immense pie. Gordon observed Elisabeth color 
deeply as she entered ; he had no idea why ; but a vision 
had suddenly crossed her mind of Madame von Waldorf’s 
house at Schlossberg, of the dining-room with its long 
windows opening on to the terrace, of the fresh and deco- 
rated dinner-table, dazzling with polished glass and silver 
and fine linen. Elisabeth had perfectly simple tastes ; it 
could never have entered her head that the difference be- 
tween her surroundings and those of her sister-in-law was 
a hardship ; but even in those first hours of exaltation 
after her arrival in her new home, the dinginess of her 
dining parlor had struck a chill through her; it seemed 
horrible to her now that she -should offer no better enter- 
tainment to her husband’s cousin than this sorry feast. 
The niggardly parsimony of her establishment, to which 
loyalty to her husband and an absence of self-assertion on 
her own account had, in a sense, reconciled her, seemed 
to stare her in the face as they approached the supper- 
table. The plated spoons and forks, the knives, the com- 
mon heavy tumblers — all were dim and dingy beyond the 
power of polishing. Nothing looked fresh but the table 
linen ; that at least, so far as whiteness went,’ was within 
her own command. 

The Vicar of Thornton Briars was quite undisturbed by 
the sentiments that were agitating his wife. “ Let us say 
grace,” he said, leaning forward a little, both hands on the 
table ; and performed that ceremony. ‘‘We are plain peo- 
ple — plain people,” he repeated, as he slowly seated him- 
self and unfolded his napkin ; “our friends need to take 
us as they find us. My dear,” perceiving the dish that had 
been placed in front of him, “this is a very extraordinary 
pie. May I inquire where it came from ? ” 

15 


226 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


‘^It looks like one of Mrs. Dawson’s pies,” said Miss 
Dulcie, with a small suppressed laugh. 

It is one of Mrs. Dawson’s,” said Elisabeth, simply, 
blushing, but retaining her self-possession in this extrem- 
ity. 

‘‘Well, let us hope it will be good,” said her husband, 
contemplating it with a somewhat disturbed countenance. 
So vast a pie, it seemed to him, must necessarily be a dis- 
turbing element in the weekly expenses that he kept in 
his own hands. In a moment he rallied, however. “ I 
hope it will prove good,” he said, putting a knife into it. 
“ Dulcie, let me give you some.” 

“No, thank you,” said Miss Dulcie, with a turn of the 
head ; “ I know what Mrs. Dawson’s pies are ; I prefer an 

Mr. Holland passed the plate to his cousin. 

“ You have perhaps more courage,” he said. “ You 
must excuse all deficiencies in an establishment like this. 
My wife is not much of a housekeeper, I am afraid ; we 
are so little at home that she has not much practice.” 

Elisabeth was aroused by this attack to a spirit she did 
not always show. “Mr. Temple will excuse all deficien- 
cies, I feel sure,” she said, gently, looking at her guest 
and smiling a little. Gordon, looking at her in return, 
noticed for the first time the direct and honest expression 
of her beautiful eyes ; he noticed also, not for the first 
time in these last few hours, that she looked charming. 
She had found time in the five minutes before supper to 
change her gray dress for a white muslin gown with loose 
muslin frills — a very old gown that had been washed many 
times, and mended not a few ; but these were facts beyond 
Gordon’s perception. He merely saw that it suited her ; 
that although she was naturally pale, she looked well in 
white. Not even the crude light of the unshaded petro- 
leum lamp (the harsh smell of the cheap petroleum per- 
vaded the supper-table) could destroy the tender youthful 
tints of her complexion, and the soft color of her brown 
hair and eyes. From Elisabeth, Gordon directed his 
glance to Dulcie Fawcett, who sat facing him ; and in this 
clearer light he found her at once prettier and less pleasing 
than she had appeared to him in the firelit parlor. She 
was a trifle sharp-featured, the type of face that in later 
years may sour to shrewishness ; but she had still the 
roundness of youth, the fresh rose-tints of a girl ; and this 
happy coloring, and the extreme alertness of her small 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


227 


bright eyes, gave a look of great freshness and animation 
to her countenance. Her expression and manner were 
less pleasing ; she had the ease and assurance, less of good 
breeding than of a country girl ignorant of her own de- 
ficiencies. She was dressed rather smartly in a sky-blue 
cashmere with a good deal of white lace about the neck 
and front. Gordon was naturally ignorant that this fine 
garment had been put on in his honor; but he could not 
remain wholly unaware that Miss Diilcie distinguished 
him by a good deal of attention. As a tolerably modest 
man, the consciousness that her eyes constantly rested on 
him when he was not looking in her direction, and were 
alertly withdrawn when he happened to turn toward her, 
annoyed him ; altogether, for a pretty and attractive-look- 
ing young woman, he thought her singularly wanting in 
charm : she struck him as underbred and pretentious. He 
wondered how she came to be so much at home at the 
vicarage ; he wondered whether Mrs. Holland, who was 
another pate altogether, as the Baroness would have said, 
regarded her with the same eyes as her husband. Mr. 
Holland, meanwhile, under the cover of generalities, had 
returned to the subject of his wife’s shortcomings. 

‘‘Young ladies,” he said, “seldom receive what I call a 
proper practical education in these days. Every young 
girl, in my opinion, ought to learn before she marries how 
to market and cook as well as any cook that can be hired. 
That is the way to keep her husband’s house economically ; 
and an unexpected guest will never find her at a loss then. 
Ten minutes or so will be enough for her to toss up some 
little dish out of anything or nothing, as one says. To 
know how to make something out of nothing — that is the 
way to practise economy ; eh, Dulcie ?” 

“Oh, I love cooking,” answered Miss Dulcie’ indirectly. 
“ I tell mother sometimes I should like nothing so much 
as to have a little kitchen all to myself. Only I’m afraid 
I should spend too much time there ; it is so amusing to 
make little dishes.” 

“Ah, well,” said Mr. Holland, “I don’t know that too 
much time should be devoted to it, though it is a very use- 
ful accomplishment — very. My dear, it might be a good 
plan for you to take a few lessons from Dulcie while we 
are at home. Nothing is so useful as to know how to 
turn one’s hand to everything.” 

Elisabeth did not immediately respond, and Gordon, 
looking at her, perceived that she was watching her hus- 


228 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


band with a solicitude that caused the admirable truisms he 
had been uttering with a high didactic purpose to fall upon 
unheeding ears. Mr. Holland had begun his supper with 
the avidity of an invalid in whom exhaustion takes the 
place of appetite ; but he almost immediately laid down 
ins knife and fork and pushed away his plate, and was now 
engaged in mixing himself a tumbler of weak whiskey and 
water. He passed the bottle across the table to Gordon. 

‘‘ Excuse my having no wine to offer you, Gordon,” he 
said, with the accent of somewhat frigid ceremony he 
affected in speaking to his cousin ; but it is forbidden me 
by the doctors, and there is none in the house.” 

“ Thank you, I prefer whiskey,” said Gordon. This 
country air of yours gives one a famous appetite, I find,” 
he added, smiling, and looking at Elisabeth. 

He looked at Elisabeth, but he looked away again im- 
mediately, for her eyes had filled with sudden tears. Some- 
thing of kindliness, of courtesy in his tone, an accent to 
which she was not greatly accustomed, moved her 
strangely. His voice moved her — it moved her greatly. 
Unheard for tliree years, it recalled to her, with a vivid- 
ness quickened by contrast, tlie Baroness, Emilia, Schloss- 
berg, those far off, sunshiny, foreign days that had once 
seemed to her to hold in themselves all the possibilities of 
freedom and joy and wisdom that life can give. To hide 
her emotion, she leaned forward across the table and ad- 
dressed her luisband. 

“ Robert,” she said quickly, yet with a certain timidity, 
“ will you not try to eat a little more ? The doctors — all 
the doctors say you ought to take more food.” 

Ah, the doctors ” said Mr. Holland. “ But the 

doctors don’t give me an appetite, my dear ; there is not 
much use in trying to eat without that, I fancy. What do 
you say, Dulcie ? You are a doctor’s daughter; you ought 
to know something about the matter.” 

Oh, no, I know very little about all that,” said Miss 
Dulcie, with a laugh. ‘‘ I am sure, though, I have heard 
father say that a patient should often be guided entirely 
by his own sensations. I don’t see how one can eat when 
one is not hungry.” 

“ Ah, now, you’re a wise girl,” said Mr. Holland, leaning 
back in his chair. ‘'That’s what I always say to my wife, 
but she doesn’t believe me. Even this fine country air of 
ours doesn’t give me an appetite. I’m afraid it rather 
takes it away.” 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


2^9 


Oh, don’t say that !” cried Miss Fawcett ; ‘‘it makes me 
think — and I don’t want to think it — that you will do right 
in going away again, and that Venice will be better for you 
than Thornton Briars. And Venice is such a long way 
off.” 

This speech, made in perfect innocence, it may be ob- 
served, by Dulcie, produced a very distinct effect on some 
of the party ; since it was at once apparent that, whatever 
his wife might know of the Vicar’s intentions. Miss Dulcie 
was not uninstructed in the matter. Gordon, glancing at 
Elisabeth, saw her color a deep red, as though she had 
been struck ; Mr. Holland himself seemed disconcerted. 

“ My plans,” he said with an air of annoyance, “are very 
uncertain ; we will not discuss them at present, my dear. 
I may probably remain altogether at Thornton Briars.” 

“Ah, that would be delightful,” murmured Dulcie, look- 
ing at her plate. An awkward silence fell, presently 
broken by Gordon, who exerted himself to keep up some 
semblance of a conversation until the close of supper. 
The dreary meal ended — he thought, in his heart, he had 
never assisted at a drearier — Elisabeth, accompanied by 
Dulcie, rose to leave the room. Gordon prepared to fol- 
low them ; but perceiving that his host had kept his seat, 
he returned to the table after the ladies had disappeared. 
He was at a loss to imagine why his cousin should desire 
to prolong so dismal a festivity. Mr. Holland lost no 
time in enlightening him. 

“ I suppose, Gordon,” he said at once, in his deliberate 
tones, “you have come down here about that money.” 

“ Not in the least,” said Gordon, with some heat. “Noth* 
ing was further from my thoughts. I came to see how 
you are getting on. We were all anxious to know.” 

You are very good,” said Mr. Holland, frigidly. “As 
regards the money,” he continued, “we agreed, you will 
remember, on an interest of two and a half per cent. That 
has gone on accumulating ” 

“ Oh, hang the money !” said Gordon, impatiently. “I 
beg your pardon, Robert, but what do I care for your two- 
penny-halfpenny interest ? I’m not a Jew ; and it was 
your arrangement, not mine. Let the whole thing be, my 
good fellow ; consider the money paid, settled, done with 
forever. I will give you a receipt in full this moment, if 
you please.” 

“Certainly not,” said Mr. Holland, rejecting the imagi- 
nary receipt with a wave of the hand. “The interest is 


230 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


there, awaiting your pleasure ; and as regards the money, 
your tone, Gordon, is singularly at variance with what it 
was when you last spoke to me on the subject three years 
ago.’^ 

The young man grew extremely red. ‘‘ I beg your par- 
don, Robert,” he said; ‘^nothing could be further from 
my intention than to dun you then, or at any other time. 
But the fact is, that three years ago I was as hard up as a 
man can well be, and if you had found it convenient to 
pay me, I should have been glad ; that was all. The case 
is different now ; for heaven’s sake, let us consider the 
thing settled, and say no more about it.” 

Mr. Holland paid no attention to the last remark. ^Ht 
would be possible — it would be possible,” he repeated, em- 
phasizing the last word, for me to repay you now, but 
only by withdrawing the money from some valuable in- 
vestments, where it is desirable it should be left somewhat 
longer. I can, of course, do so, should you desire it.” 

“ I have already expressed my wish in the matter,” said 
Gordon, curtly. 

“ In my state of health,’" Mr. Holland continued, ‘H am 
necessarily obliged to consider certain contingencies. It 
is within my contemplation that I may have to resign a 
more considerable portion than at present of the income I 
derive from my living. Under these circumstances, I con- 
sider it wise to practise a system of rigid economy for the 
present, with the view of purchasing, within the next few 
3'ears, an annuity that would set me more at ease."’ 

“ That’s rather uncomfortable, isn’t it?” said Gordon, 
“ for yourself and your wife, too.” 

My wife has her own fortune,” said Mr. Holland, dis- 
tantly ; “ and while I live, she will, of course, profit by the 
annuity.” 

Oh, I wasn’t thinking so much of — of possible contin- 
gencies,"’ said Gordon, “ as of the rigid economy v^ou speak 
of in the present. That sounds rather an uncomfortable 
way of living.” 

Ah ! — of that you must allow me to be the best judge,"’ 
said Mr. Holland, slowly rising. ‘‘As regards the money, 
then, we will leave it as it is for the present ; the interest, 
you can, of course, draw whenever you think proper. We 
had better, I believe, go into the other room now, this one 
feels rather chilly ; the fire is out, I see.” 

The drawing-room presented a silent aspect. Elisabeth 
was working on one side of the table ; Miss Fawcett, on 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


231 


the Other, was turning over the pages of the German Re- 
view. She at once addressed herself to Gordon. 

“ How’ much you must know!'’ she said; “and how 
clever you must be ! I have just been looking at what is 
said of you in this article — 1 understand German pretty 
well, you know, though I Aave only studied it at scliool — 
I never met anyone so learned before. In a quiet little 
place like this one doesn’t often come across clever peo- 
ple, and I take so much interest in all these subjects that 
you know so much about. How I wish you would explain 
to me everything I don’t understand.” 

“ That would be a delightful task,” said Gordon, smiling. 
“I can imagine nothing that would give me greater pleas- 
ure.” 

“How good of you to say so!” said Miss Dulcie ; 
“though I’m afraid you don’t know what you are under- 
taking. You have no idea how much we are behind the 
world here in such matters. Isn’t that true?” she said, 
appealing to Elisabeth. 

Elisabeth did not immediately respond. “ I didn’t 

know ” she began and stopped. “ I was not aware,” 

she went on, after a moment’s hesitation, “ that you cared 
so much about them.” 

Miss Fawcett opened lier eyes, and gave a small, cheer- 
ful laugh. “Oil,” she said, “that is because we see so 
little of each other. And I am going away now, for Mr. 
Holland, I am sure, is tired. It Avas so kind of you to ask 
me to come in.” 

She looked, as she spoke, toward the master of the 
house, who had thrown himself into his big armchair by 
the fire. He roused himself at the remark, and held out 
his liand without rising. 

“ My dear,” he said, “ it is always a pleasure to see any 
one so kind and so thoughtful as you are. You will ex- 
cuse me, Gordon ; but I am an invalid, you know, and 
have to keep invalid hours. Perhaps you will see Miss 
Fawcett home.” 

“I shall be delighted,” said Gordon, glancing at the 
young girl. “Let us hope,” he said, “that the walk will 
be long enough for all those explanations we were speak- 
ing of.” He turned to Elisabeth, who had risen, and was 
standing with one hand on the mantelpiece. “ Good- 
night, Mrs. Holland,” he said, in a dilferent tone. 

Elisabeth was looking at her husband, but she turned 
her head when he spoke, and her eyes met his with a sad- 


232 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


ness in them that touched him the more that she was, as 
he perceived, preoccupied and hardly conscious of her 
action as she shook hands. She accompanied Dulcie, how- 
ever, into the vestibule, and duly saw to her hat and shawl, 
receiving in return a cheerful farewell from the young lady 
as she sallied forth with her escort into the spring night. 
Gordon suspected her of a strong disposition to flirt with 
him ; but if such a desire were in truth animating her, it 
was not immediately gratified. Gordon’s first words related 
to Mr. Holland. 

‘‘My cousin looks very ill,” he said. “You, who, as I 
gather, see a good deal of him ” 

“Yes, I see a good deal of Mr. Holland,” said his com- 
panion. “ I am very fond of parish work, you know, and I 
am glad to be of some little help and comfort to him. 
There is so much in a parish that only a lady can see to 
properly. I don’t say it is the occupation I always prefer ; 
I should often be glad to give more time to study. Still, 
under present circumstances, it seems to fall to me, and 
the work that comes to one’s hand is always the best worth 
doing. That is the view” I take, at any rate.” 

“Those are most admirable sentiments,” said Gordon ; 
“ and my cousin is much to be congratulated on having 
so willing and efficient a helper. I was going to ask you, 
who see a good deal of him, what you think of his chances 
of ultimate recovery. It is a question one can hardly put 
plainly to his wife.” 

“To his wife?” cried Dulcie. She checked herself, 
however, in what she was about to say, and went on in a 
quieter tone. “ We have never doubted,” she said, “ of 
Mr. Holland’s ultimate recovery ; I mean, there is no rea- 
son that he should not recover ; that is what my father al- 
ways says — he is his doctor here, you know. He has been 
ill a long time now, but I don’t know that he gets much 
W'orse. It would be dreadful,” she said, with something 
of genuine emotion in her voice, “to think that he would 
not recover.” 

The emotion surprised Gordon. He had been displeased 
by the girl’s manner, and had not expected any show" of 
feeling on her part. He spoke again in a kindlier tone. 

“My cousin, I have ahvays understood,” he said, “is 
very much beloved in his parish ? ” 

“ Yes,” she answered, applying a handkerchief to her 
eyes for a moment. “ His marriage is the only thing he 
has done that has ever displeased us.” 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


233 


His marriage ! ” cried Gordon. “ That is a criticism 

” he broke off. I should have thought,” he said, 

“that is a matter that concerns liimself and his wife 
alone. It can hardly have affected his relations to his 
parishioners.” 

“Oh, you don’t know — you don’t know!” said the 
young girl ; “ you don’t know what a difference it has 
made to us all. If he had married a wife worthy of him, 
capable of understanding him, and entering into all his 
efforts — a really superior woman, able to take the lead in 
the parish, as the Vicar’s wife ouglit — why, then, whatever 
difference there were would be all in the right direction. 
But Mrs. Holland could never take the lead ; why, she 
understands nothing! And what is more, we cannot pre- 
tend to understand her.” 

“ Her long absence from the parish ” began Gordon ; 

but he broke off again. Nothing, he immediately per- 
ceived, could concern him less than to defend Elisabeth. 
The sadness of her eyes, that haunted him, seemed a pro- 
test against a defence that would imply a possibility of 
blame. He had seen her, virtually, for the first time that 
afternoon ; he knew her life through mere glimpses. But 
he was a man easily impressed ; she had impressed him 
greatly ; and his companion’s words seemed, by a leap as 
it were, to placeh^v in his imagination. He changed the 
subject abruptly by remarking on the beauty of the night ; 
and Miss Dulcie’s prompt response, inquiring whether the 
stars here were the same as those he had seen in the East, 
led to a conversation that enabled him to ascertain some- 
thing of the extent of her talent for flirtation, which he 
had judged beforehand to be large. He had not been mis- 
taken he found ; and by the end of the walk he had gone 
further ; he judged that, with time and experience and a 
more subtle cultivation of her talent than opportunity had 
yet afforded in her remote country life, she might become 
a somewhat dangerous little person. There was nothing 
subtle about Miss Fawcett so far ; a note of exaggeration, 
of a certain commonness of mind, sounded in almost every- 
thing she said. She had offended Gordon’s temper and 
taste by this crudeness of tone, and by her attitude that 
evening toward his cousin’s wife ; she had provoked, ac- 
cordingly, a more critical judgment than would, perhaps, 
be naturally awarded to a sweet-voiced young woman of 
considerable personal charms ; but such was, at any rate, 
the final impression left by Miss Dulcie on his mind. 


234 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


Elisabeth, meanwhile, having seen the hall-door close 
upon her guests, went back to the sitting-room. Her hus- 
band was seated as she had left him ; his feet stretched 
out toward the fire, his hands spread out on the arms of 
the chair, his eyes closed. He was much feebler in every 
way than in the old days at Schlossberg. Elisabeth, who 
had never been separated from him for a day since, and 
who had seen him rally from more than one alarming at- 
tack of illness, hardly understood how much feebler he 
was. She came in softly now, thinking he was asleep — he 
had the invalid habit of falling readily into a doze — and 
sitting down by the table, she took up again the volume 
of ‘‘The Pirate’’ she was engaged in reading. And she 
was still so young, site had such a passion of imagination 
unfed, uncared for, in her daily life, that in five minutes 
she had almost forgotten herself and her cares in the wild 
beating of the storm-driven waves on the ultimate shores 
of Thule. She was roused by her husband’s voice. 

“ My dear,” he said, “ 1 am exceedingly fatigued. If 
you will ring for Jane, we will have prayers at once.” 

“ Oh, I am sorry ! ” said Elisabeth, starting and closing 
her book ; “ as it was not late, I sent Jane out on an 
errand, to the village ; but she will be back in a few min- 
utes, if you don’t mind waiting.” 

Mr. Holland made no answer. It was Elisabeth who 
first spoke again. 

“I suppose,” she said, with the accent of timidity that 
sometimes made itself heard when she addressed her 
husband, “you are too tired to-night to look over the 
week’s accounts : it will be better to leave them till Mon- 
day.” 

“ Yes ; that will be better,” he answered, closing his eyes 
again. In a moment he re-opened them. “I was speak- 
ing to Dulcie to-day, my dear, about the butcher’s bill; 
and she tells me, as I felt sure must be the case, that it is 
excessive, and that he must certainly cut the meat very 
wastefully for so much to be consumed in a small house- 
hold like ours.” 

“Dulcie cannot know!” said Elisabeth, impetuously ; 
“and I wish — I wish, if you don’t mind, that you wouldn’t 
consult her about our bills.” 

“She cannot know — why cannot she know?” said Mr. 
Holland. 

“ Because she doesn’t keep our house,” said Elisabeth, 
simply; “nor do I believe that she knows much about 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


235 


housekeeping. In any case, she cannot know how much 
meat we need during the week.” 

“You are wrong, my dear — altogether wrong. Dulcie 
knows a great deal about housekeeping. She often keeps 
house at home.” 

“ Oh, she says so — she says so ! ” began Elisabeth. She 
took up her work, and set a few hasty stitches. “ Dulcie 
says so many things,” she went on, letting the work fall 
into her lap again ; “ she says tliat she is so fond of parish 

work, but it is only when you are here ” she broke 

off. 

Mr. Holland did not immediately answer. 

“ My dear,” he said at last, without looking at her, “ I 
should recommend you, when you have half an hour to 
yourself, to devote it to studying the thirteenth chapter of 
the First Epistle to the Corinthians.” 

Elisabeth colored extremely, but said nothing. 

“And on Monday,” her husband continued in the same 
tone, “ I will look over the butcher’s bill since our return, 
and see where a reduction can be effected. I think it 
probable that the beef-tea I have been taking twice a day 
may account for a good deal of the expenditure, but I am 
thinking of giving that up. I am thoroughly tired of it ; 
and that being the case, I doubt that it does me more harm 
than good,” 

“No, Robert,” said Elisabetli, leaning forward with the 
most anxious solicitude ; “don’t give it up ; you know it 
is almost the only real nourishment you take. If you think 
our weekly expenses too high — I don’t tiiink they are very 
high, really — I will go without meat. 1 am strong ; it 
won’t hurt me ; I will try to be more economical. Only 
don’t give up your beef-tea.” 

“ Allow me to be the judge, my dear,” said her husband, 
without moving. “ I shall probably give it up.” 

He closed his eyes again. Elisabeth sat gazing before 
her, feeling, not for the first time, that to talk with her hus- 
band in certain moods was to find herself in an impasse^ to 
run against a dead wall, that she, at any rate, was power- 
less to shake. The perception was always intolerable to 
her ; she could not sit still under it ; there had been times 
when she had felt that she would like to fling herself 
against it with both fists, as it were, and beat it down. To- 
night she rushed for relief into another subject, reckless 
that she could not have chosen a worse moment to intro- 
duce it. 


236 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


Do you think ” she began, nervously, then gath- 

ered courage. “Do you think,” she said, “you will ac- 
cept your brother Otto’s offer ? ” 

“ I really cannot say,” Mr. Holland answered, with the 
most chilling indifference. “ Perhaps ; 1 have not suffi- 
ciently considered the subject.” 

“It might do you good,” said Elisabeth. “I think it 
would, if we could go soon, before the east winds begin 
here. Don't you think so?” She paused, but her hus- 
band made no reply. A vision of Venice opened before 
her, the unseen Venice of her dreams, domed and walled 
with white marble, winged with sails, shimmering and re- 
flected in transparent wave and light. And it was there 
for them to take or to leave ! “Do consider it, Robert,” she 
said. “ I mean, of course, if the doctor should approve ; 
1 think he would. We should have the house for nothing, 
you know.” 

“That would be a consideration with you ?” said Mr. 
Holland ; “I should not expect it to affect you greatly.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Elisabeth, drawing back and flush- 
ing at his tone ; “but I should have imagined it one that 
would have importance with you.” 

Mr. Holland looked at her, and tlien again at the fire. 
“ Certainly,” he said slowly, “ it has very great importance. 
My dear, will you be good enough to ring the bell ? 1 

heard Jane come in a minute ago, and I am too much 
fatigued to talk any more to-night.” 

Elisabeth rose, and first ringing the bell, fetched a Bible 
and Prayer-book and placed them on a small table that 
she moved to her husband’s side. The maid came in ; Mr. 
Holland read a psalm and two or three collegts in the 
somewhat monotonous, sing-song voice he affected in read- 
ing the Church Service. It is to be hoped that Elisabeth 
profited by this spiritual sustenance ; for, of all that rich 
spiritual feast to which she had once looked forward, this 
spare and frugal remnant was all that was left to her. 

Possibly she did profit by it ; at any rate, she approached 
her husband at its close in a different mood. He bent for- 
ward to kiss her forehead. 

“ Good-night, my dear,” he said. 

Elisabeth took his hand in both hers. The tone of their 
late discussion was hateful to her; she felt an uncontroll- 
able need for one touch of warmth and reconciliation. 
“ Forgive me, Robert,” she said, pleadingly. 

“ For what ? ” he said, with a sort of cold languor. He 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


237 


dropped her hands and turned to leave the room, moving 
to the door with so slow and feeble a step that every other 
sentiment in Elisabeth’s heart was swallowed up in great 
and tender pity. She went a step forward, her eyes dilat- 
ing at that pathetic spectacle of the weakness of a strongly- 
built man — a spectacle to which she was accustomed, 
indeed, but which now and again forced itself newly on 
her attention ; but she went no farther than that one step. 
Her husband, as she knew, disliked that she should proffer 
her help ; he rejected it always. She watched him leave 
the room, and listened to his slow step as he crossed the 
hall and ascended the stair; she heard him pause and give 
some orders to Jane ; then a door closed above. Elisa- 
beth quitted her motionless attitude, and droping into her 
chair, took up her book again. She had the habit of 
reading one book or another at night, after her husband 
had left her. But to-night she could not read. Now that 
she was alone, and could trust herself to think, thought 
came in a torrent. Gordon Temple’s visit had stirred up 
some of her closest, her most sacred memories. With a 
sudden burst of tears, her thoughts flew back to three 
years ago, and to Schlossberg. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

A RETROSPECT. 

It was not that Schlossberg was strange to tlie thoughts 
in these days. On the contrary, her stay there had been 
an episode so momentous in her life that no memory of 
her life assailed her so keenly, or held her so closely. As 
a rule, however, she put it aside ; nay, she kept it at arm’s 
length. But to-night ! For three years no voice had 
reached her ears, no face crossed her vision, of those whom 
she had known there ; and though, of all whom she had 
known, Gordon Temple had been tlie least seen, the least 
regarded, she felt now as if he had been associated with 
every hour of her stay. O God ! those early days at 
Schlossberg ; her spacious, dusky attic, her wide sunset 
view, filled with a never-ending procession of dreams ; her 
books, her classes, her short-lived sense of freedom. Deep 
sobs, wrung from her by the piercing sweetness of the 
memory of the happiest days she had ever known, shook 


238 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


Elisabeth’s whole frame ; but in a minute she forced them 
back. The strongest habit of her present life was the re- 
pression of all strong emotion. She forced back her sobs ; 
and though her tears continued to flow' for a while, they 
also presently ceased. For her, too, as for everyone, 
practical life had claims superior to those of any memories, 
however poignant. Her tears ceased to flow, and in a 
moment she remembered that it was Saturday night, that 
it was still early, and that she had the w^eek’s mending on 
her hands. Red-eyed she rose from her seat, and going 
softly to the kitchen desired Jane to bring her the basket 
of household linen for the next week’s wash, that she 
might see W'hat sheets and tablecloths required darning. 
Elisabeth’s unwilling needle, which, however, was by no 
means an unskilful one, had acquired dexterity through 
plenty of practice in these last years ; but that, beyond a 
certain tedium, modified by books, was no special griev- 
ance to her. She had the satisfaction of feeling that she 
was fulfilling a duty, and a duty so much easier than some 
others that fell to her share, that it even afforded her a 
sort of pleasure. She did not like a tablecloth full of 
darns ; but at least it might be set down on the right side 
of her account that it W'as not full of holes. In that 
direction, at any rate, her conscience might be at rest ; 
and Elisabeth had travelled w'ide oceans and deserts, in- 
deed, since the time wdien the liveliest reproach her con- 
science afforded her was, that she could find nothing to 
reproach herself with. She did little else than repent now, 
poor child, wdth the dreariest sense that repentance w'as 
of no avail, since it changed nothing. She did not formu- 
late it ; she w^ould formulate nothing that could give a 
more definite shape to the unhappiness of her life ; but 
deep in her heart lay the conviction that, though human 
effort may modify, it can never change the conditions, the 
unalterable conditions of human nature, and that the sor- 
riest tragedy of life lies in the miserable sense of wrong 
that attends the clashing of tw^o incompatible and irrecon- 
cilable human w'ills. 

Elisabeth, I say, would formulate nothing. She did 
not love disillusions ; it w^ould have seemed to her that 
life might as well end at once, as that she should deliber- 
ately strip away all those fine-w’oven golden mists and 
veils with which she had beforehand invested her married 
life. Happily — or unhappily — to a nature such as hers, 
at once loyal and self-diffident, disillusion comes very 


THE FA IE C/EE OF ELISABETH. 


239 


slowly. Those fine-woven veils may be eaten through and 
through, and yet for years retain sometliing of their pris- 
tine hue and texture, till, through some rougher touch 
than usual, they all at once fall to dust. Elisabeth, like 
many other young girls, had married, inspired by an im- 
mense egotism ; though it may be conceded that in her 
the egotism lay not too far removed from a virtue. It 
never occurred to her that she herself could be of much 
importance in Mr. Holland’s life ; she was too young and 
ignorant. To sit at his feet and imbibe wisdom, to re- 
ceive everything and give nothing in return but an adoring 
gratitude, that had seemed to her the only possible posi- 
tion for each to occupy toward the other. When she 
began to discover that Mr. Holland had other ideas — it is 
so naturally annoying to a man to be expected to deliver 
himself of the spiritual wisdom of the ages, when he is 
chiefly concerned to ascertain where half-a-crown can be 
saved in the weekly expenditure, that she was not long in 
making the discovery — she reproached herself with being 
too exacting. It puzzled her not a little, since she seemed 
to herself precisely the same as before her marriage, when 
Mr. Holland had been a perfect storehouse of wisdom for 
her benefit ; still, it never could occur to her for a moment 
that she had been mistaken in her estimate of his charac- 
ter ; and when she first became aware, as she very soon 
did, that her married life was going to be something quite 
different from what she had anticipated, she was prompt 
to lay the blame entirely on herself. That was a point of 
view she had never yet consciously abandoned, though how 
far she had slipped from it she might have judged, had 
she chosen to measure by such a flash of memory as had 
visited her to-night, the distance that divided Mr. Holland 
as she had imagined him at the Pension Werner, and her 
husband as she knew him after an acquaintance of three 
years. Elisabeth had no desire to measure that distance ; 
to judge her husband might be to find him altogether 
wanting ; and what would then be left to her in life ? To be 
loyal to him in thought and word— -that was the passionate 
ideal to which, in the sad wreck of some other ideals, 
Elisabeth ardently clung. And was he not, after all, very 
much what she had imagined ? Religious, earnest, hard- 
working, and pathetically good in his resignation to the 
heavy burthen of his long illness. My dear, it is the Will 
of God ; He knows what is best for us ; it is not for us to 
murmur, but to submit that was all the answer that he 


240 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


had ever made when, in the early days of their married 
life, she had been disposed to rebel on his account. These 
were not mere phrases, as she knew ; they expressed the 
deep conviction by which he lived. Surely he was good 
— only not faultless — no, not faultless. . . . 

Madame von Waldorf had said truly, in her letter to 
Gordon, that she and her brother’s wife had remained 
apart. A tumult of contradiction existed in Elisabeth’s 
mind in regard to Emilia. She loved her, and she had 
learned to love her in Schlossberg ; that in itself laid an 
eternal claim on her affection ; and yet there were times 
when she would have liked never to hear or think of her 
again, for she was connected with a stinging memory. 
When her words, unheeded at the time, “ He thinks a good 
deal about money,” first recurred to Elisabeth, no empty 
husk, as they liad seemed at first, but weighty with mean- 
ing, she felt as though some malignant demon were wav- 
ing a horrid torch to illuminate and interpret half her life. 
In vain she shut her eyes ; the light was there ; it was 
Emilia’s hand that had kindled it ; and there were times 
when Elisabeth felt that she would rather die than let 
Madame von Waldorf give one glance below the surface 
of her married life. It was not for many months after 
that life had begun that perception and memory dawned 
upon her. Mr. Holland’s economical habits did not 
trouble her in the least at first ; her whole training and 
education had induced simple tastes. She was a little 
Puritan in such matters, like many another English girl ; 
luxury, the idea even of luxury, as connected with her- 
self, was foreign to her ; she would have thought it wrong. 
She had, indeed, a woman’s love of pretty gowns ; she 
had, as we know, no more disinclination than any other 
young girl to rehearse her small vanities before a look- 
ing-glass. But when her husband told her gravely that 
vanities of any kind were unbecoming in a clergyman’s 
wife, and the Apostle’s injunction as to simplicity of attire 
were more especially incumbent upon her, the good child 
believed him implicitly, and did her best to obey. In the 
same way, when he instructed her that the narrowness of 
their income compelled the rigid consideration of every 
penny before it was spent, she accepted the statement in 
entire faith. She hardly knew what their income was; 
she knew nothing of what things cost. She had a school- 
girl’s ignorance in such matters ; and winged with eager- 
ness to meet her husband’s slightest wish, she outstripped 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


241 


him at first in ingenious thrift ; she had small triumphs of 
economy that she detailed to him with pride, to win an ap- 
proving smile. Only by degrees — only by degrees, through 
the closer acquaintance with her husband’s character, 
through the wider acquaintance with the world that her 
married life necessarily entailed, did she come to under- 
stand that whatever an income might be — their own, she 
presently learned, was a liberal one for a man of her hus- 
band’s profession — its limits need not necessitate a contin- 
ual wrangling with tradesmen, with porters, with servants, 
an incessant effort to turn the balance of profit in one’s own 
favor ; that sordidness is one thing, economy another ; 
and that, even though circumstances exclude generosity, 
they need not admit meanness. Only by degrees, I say, 
by commerce with the world, by passing remarks over- 
heard, by her own growing impatience over the eternal 
question of farthings, did Elisabeth begin to connect the 
above excellent truisms with her husband’s conduct of 
life. She only realized the connection on the day when, 
like the sting of some noxious reptile, Emilia’s words re- 
turned to her mind. 

She compounded the matter after the fashion of mortals. 
She had thought her husband faultless ; well, he was not 
faultless. On the contrary, he had a fault that exasper- 
ated her to a degree that left her no choice, if life was to 
be tolerable, but to accept it unhesitatingly for herself, 
and to ignore it, whenever she could not remedy it, for 
others. For herself, as has been said, she cared little as a 
rule, though it had had one result that was odious to her 
— the selection by her husband of a cheap boarding-house 
at Westport in which to pass their winters. Elisabeth 
wondered sometimes why a cheap English boarding-house 
should affect her so differently, should seem so much more 
detestable than good Frau Werner’s pension at Schloss- 
berg, which was certainly not remarkable for the choice 
neatness of its appointments ; but so it was. There was a 
certain cracked water-jug in her bedroom there, a certain 
cheap painted washing-stand with half its paint rubbed 
off, a certain spotted and tarnislied mirror, that made all 
life seem squalid. The water-jug she did manage to re- 
place in time ; but the washing-stand and the looking- 
glass — they returned year after year to the same rooms — 
remained to afflict her to the end. This, I say, was an 
odious result, and twice she had remonstrated with Mr. 
Holland on the subject, but no more. At the time that 
16 


242 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


we meet her again, it was months since she had remon- 
strated with her husband on any point except when her 
hot young blood drove her to utter words she always re- 
pented of afterward. Elisabeth, it may be noted, had 
ceased to think of herself as apathetic ; on the contrary, 
she was frightened by the capacity for passion that she 
had discovered in herself ; that was not the result she had 
anticipated in marrying the Vicar of Thornton Briars ! 

Mr. Holland, on his side, had not been without his 
disillusions also. ^Seeing in Elisabeth, to start with, only 
one of those adoring young creatures with whom his 
pastoral office had made him familiar, he figured to him- 
self beforehand a wife whose leading quality would re- 
main unlimited adoration (adorned by general usefulness 
and three hundred a year), and wliose insignificant 
remnant of character he would be able to mould as he 
pleased. Had he been able to live at home in his own 
parish, his dream might in part have been fulfilled ; he 
would at least have been in an atmosphere favorable to its 
fulfilment. Listening, Sunday after Sunday, to her hus- 
band’s eloquent sermons, learning to help him in his de- 
voted pastoral work, Elisabeth might long have retained 
that attitude of worship dear to every devout and enthusi- 
astic young soul. But the life he was actually compelled 
to lead, the incidents of travel, the contact with strangers, 
those hundred accidents that have the pernicious trick of 
dislocating a character and revealing all its weakest points, 
had proved fatal to Mr. Holland’s scheme. He had for- 
gotten to reckon with his wife’s intelligence. It had pos- 
sibly never occurred to him that she had any particular 
intelligence apart from her appreciation of himself ; he 
had certainly not reckoned — and there he was the less to 
blame that Elisabeth herself was ignorant of it — with his 
wife’s independence of character. The first time she ven- 
tured to assert herself in opposition to him, he was con- 
founded ; but he reproved her and forgot it as an isolated in- 
cident not likely to recur. But the incident occurred again 
and again, till Mr. Holland discovered to his dismay that 
his wife had a capacity for contemplating and judging 
him altogether apart from his own point of view. The 
discovery was an exceedingly unpleasant one. It would 
be hardly too much to say that from the moment lie made 
it his somewhat tepid affection for the young girl whom 
he had married passed into an indifference that only a 
sense of duty, and that languor of ill-health that deadened 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


243 


all his sensations, kept from passing into a more active 
dislike. To find a clear-eyed wife, in short, in the place 
of an unquestioning worshipper, occasioned him a discom- 
fort so keen, that he may be excused, perhaps, if it en- 
gaged him in some resentment toward Elisabeth. It 
need hardly, however, be said that he expressed no resent- 
ment. He simply took up a line of conduct that should 
relieve him, as far as possible, of criticism. He alfected 
to treat his wife as a child, whose judgment was not worth 
considering. By degrees, through no very fixed scheme 
on his part, rather through the exercise of the law that 
accelerates mechanically, as it were, any alienation once 
started between two human beings, he altogether withdrew 
from her liis confidence, except in the most trivial matters, 
simply communicating to her such decisions as he finally 
came to — decisions from which, as she soon came to learn, 
there was no appeal so far as she was concerned. 

The situation was one not without precedent ; but it is 
not always that a husband can suppress a wife whose 
point of view is becoming inconvenient to him, with the 
success that, on the whole, attended Mr. Holland’s efforts. 
He was favored in this case, at any rate, by the happiest 
circumstances, and by Elisabeth’s own temperament. 
She had an ideal far up in the clouds of what a clergy- 
man’s wife in general, and Mr. Holland’s in particulai, 
ought to be ; but she had not an idea of practically assert- 
ing herself in that position ; her extreme diffidence stood 
in her way ; nor, from the beginning, did it occur to her 
husband to lend her much assistance. When he first took 
her home to Thornton Briars, Elisabeth found herself in 
an atmosphere which, if not absolutely unfriendly, was a 
trifle chilling to a shy young girl in whom the first rudi- 
ments of self-confidence, taught by experience of the 
world, were wanting. The vicar’s marriage had been dis- 
approved of in the parish ; no one wished to see a young 
girl fresh from the schoolroom filling the important 
position of mistress of the vicarage ; or, if the position 
was to be so filled, more than one young lady within a 
stone’s throw of the vicarage had claim to promotion that 
the vicar would have done well to recognize. Had my 
heroine been other than she was, had she, in truth, been 
everything she was not, self-confident, that is to say, 
brisk, sociable, energetic in making friends, instead of 
the Elisabeth we know, she might, without too much dif- 
ficulty, have overcome the prejudice that awaited her. 


244 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


As it was, while Mr. Holland on his return found himself 
welcomed back with unfeigned joy into a familiar atmos- 
phere of affection, appreciation, and admiration — it need 
iiardly be said that the disapproval felt at his marriage 
fell wholly on his wife, not on himself — while he found 
himself, I say, basking in this warm familiar sunshine of 
approval, wliich only the vagaries of churchwardens and 
the occasional blundering of a curate kept from being too 
ecstatic for tliis lower world, Elisabeth felt herself a little 
left out in the cold. She was like a stranger not wanted 
in a party of old friends who knew each other’s ways and 
catchwords — ways that often seemed strange enough 
to her — and no one took her by the hand. It was not 
that the people at Thornton Briars were unkindly ; they 
were very much like other human beings, and there is a 
good deal of kindness always, as well as of selfishness, in 
human nature ; but a young and newly-married wife may 
well be supposed to be an object to her husband of such 
solicitude as excludes any claim upon the outer world. 
This was especially felt at Thornton Briars ; Mr. Holland’s 
wife was a person so highly, so exceptionally privileged, 
that to show her too much favor would be to add to the 
injustice of fortune that had already enriched her beyond 
her merits. If she did not consider herself the happiest 
of mortals, she ought to do so ! Their part was to wel- 
come Mr. Holland among them again ; to make him feel 
that, unless he desired it, his marriage should make no dif- 
ference. Apparently he did not desire it ; it was delightful 
to see how unchanged he was ; there were moments when it 
might almost be forgotten that he had a wife at all. It 
was impossible for Elisabeth to feel herself of any great 
importance in the parish of Thornton Briars. 

I feel that I am exposing my heroine to the sad accusa- 
tion that her unpopularity was entirely her own fault when 
I say that matters were little better at the seaside boarding- 
house, whither they adjourned for the winter. I would 
immediately add, therefore, that in the little society that 
presently gathered about them from among the residents 
of the town, more than one kind and motherly woman was 
found who, sincerely pitying the young wife with her 
sickly husband, took the girl under her protection, and 
cheered her life to a degree that won from her the warm- 
est gratitude. These kindly people made the social con- 
ditions of the dull little winter watering-place more toler- 
able to her ; the company she was obliged to associate 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


245 


with in the boarding-house she found intolerable to the 
end ; and the first shock her allegiance to her husband re- 
ceived was perhaps through the discovery that he was not 
only resigned to, but found positive entertainment in the 
vapid gossip, puerile to the point of vulgarity, that formed 
the staple of conversation at the dinner-table and in the 
public sitting-room. Alas, for the spacious dusky attic, 
with its far historic view peopled by a procession of 
dreams 1 Elisabeth had no such refuge now. She could 
only take her book and read as well as her impatience 
would permit her, whilst the empty chatter that she was 
too young to accept cynically, too unphilosophical to take 
with calmness, went X)n, There were three old maids, 
there were too horrible Anglo-Indian women of doubtful 
antecedents — Elisabeth could never afterward recall them 
without a shudder — who had the habit of surrounding her 
husband after dinner, of overwhelming him with petits 
soins. And he liked it ; merciful heavens, he liked it ! 
Elisabeth used to retreat into the furthest corner of the 
room, and her eyes fixed on her book, close ears and at- 
tention as much as possible. And since it is impossible to 
imagine that such company should please the reader any 
better than it pleased Elisabeth, I am glad not to be com- 
pelled to linger over this portion of my heroine’s history. 
But it is not surprising that neither at Westport could she 
feel herself a person of great social importance. 

At the time of Mr. Holland’s visit to Thornton Briars, 
after his marriage — a visit of some two months only before 
he moved to winter quarters — Miss Dulcie Fawcett was 
not at home ; she was engaged in finishing her education 
at the superior boarding-school of a neighboring town. 
It was in the following summer that Elisabeth made the 
acquaintance of a young lady who was destined to have 
some influence on her future. At first the two girls — 
Dulcie was the younger by some six months or so — at- 
tained to a certain degree of intimacy. Miss Fawcett was 
delighted to patronize the vicar’s wife, and our forlorn 
Elisabeth, profoundly ignorant of parish matters, unwill- 
ing to harass her husband by her ignorance, and diffident 
of consulting the one or two energetic ladies who, with the 
curate, ruled in Mr. Holland’s absence — Elisabeth was not 
unwilling to be patronized. It may be stated at once, how- 
ever, that Miss Dulcie Fawcett was not a person to inspire 
continued confidence ; she had, as one of her school-fellows 
graphically expressed it, the habit of kissing one before 


246 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


one’s face, and pinching one behind one’s back ; she had, 
moreover, that particular adaptability which confers so 
much grace in public, that it can only be a matter for re- 
gret that in private life it should occasionally rouse the 
most uncharitable feelings. Elisabeth, where her affec- 
tions were not concerned, was gifted with one of the least 
gracious powers with which the genius of truth can endow 
a mortal, the power of detecting the slightest shade of pre- 
tension at a glance ; and she had known Dulcie Fawcett 
but a very brief period before discovering an extremely 
vacant and hollow background to that young lady’s pro- 
fessions and enthusiasms. In one direction only could 
Elisabeth find any very genuine feeling to correspond with 
her facile expressions, and that was in the devotion professed 
by Miss Dulcie for the vicar. She had, it presently ap- 
peared, when she was a little tired of patronizing Elisa- 
beth, an affection and admiration for Mr. Holland that 
caused the prevailing sentiment at Thornton Briars, that 
Mrs. Holland was at once an inconvenient and insignifi- 
cant accident, to take a very acute form. She ceased to 
patronize ; she did her best, whilst resuming her old rela- 
tions with the vicar, to ignore his wife ; and she had only 
to assume this attitude to make Elisabeth, whose relations 
with her husband were already a little strained, very help- 
less. Dulcie had lived in the parish all her life ; she knew 
all about everyone ; she had always been a particular fa- 
vorite with the vicar — that was a privilege and an honor she 
saw no reason whatever for resigning — he had known her 
since she was a child, he had prepared her for Confirma- 
tion, he had advised her in her duties. It was easy, it was 
natural, to place in her instructed hands certain club ac- 
counts, clothing-society books, and other matters, that in 
the natural order of things would have fallen under his 
wife's superintendence. Elisabeth had hoped to learn of 
Dulcie, who seemed to her to have a sufficient acquaint- 
ance with parish business ; but when she perceived that 
Miss Fawcett had no intention of resigning the superior- 
ity lent to her by superior knowledge, she was incapable 
of fighting a battle on the subject. She was withheld by 
the dread of harassing her husband with a petty woman’s 
quarrel ; and presently by an abyss that opened before her 
in the possibility that, in some such miserable strife, it 
might not be her part that he would take. She resigned 
herself, therefore, and the more easily that their long ab- 
sences from the parish opened a way for her to do so ; but 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


247 


it would be vain to deny that her sentiments toward 
Dulcie Fawcett were, as a fact, by no means in harmony 
with those precepts of St. Paul to which her husband had 
directed her attention. A passion of resentment, on the 
contrary, possessed her at times. And yet it was not al- 
together common jealousy that moved her to such heat ; 
it was rather the unspoken, unrecognized conviction that 
she had been a fool — a fool. In her husband and Miss 
Fawcett she seemed to see a sort of travesty of what she 
herself had been to him ; of what, before their marriage, 
he had been to herself. Those words and tones and looks, 
the kindly interest, the grave solicitude, that had once 
seemed to single her out from all the world to supreme 
distinction, to justify to herself an interest in herself be- 
yond any other created being, she saw them all addressed 
to Dulcie ; as in the young girl’s reception of them jhe 
seemed to see some horrible, mocking reflection of herself. 
Elisabeth, I say, indulged in no vulgar conception of the 
situation ; she was loyal to her husband ; she was even 
clear-sighted enough — so far had married life cleared her 
vision — to perceive that his manner to Dulcie meant no 
more than his manner to half the women, young and old, 
in his parish ; only emphasized a little, perhaps, by an old 
and kindly partiality. But, in that case, where and who 
was she herself? Where was the especial place in his re- 
gard ? Why was she his wife ? This tragedy, or comedy, 
call it which you will, of all her own past relations with 
Mr. Holland played out before her eyes, with another 
actress in her own part — the same, all but the denouefneiit 
— was a sorry enough spectacle to Elisabeth. It was her 
entertainment throughout each summer, and it taxed her 
patience and her pride alike. There were times when it ex- 
asperated her to the very verge of endurance. 

A hope, constantly cherished by Elisabeth, that, on their 
next return to Thornton Briars, some happy accident 
might have brought about Miss Fawcett’s absence from 
the scene, was always doomed to disappointment. Dulcie 
was always there to welcome them ; a presence thrown 
more and more into relief by the growing breach and 
alienation between her husband and herself. To two points, 
that might have added to the unhappiness of Elisabeth’s 
life, she had so far remained blind. In the first place, she 
had no conception, none whatever, that in her husband’s 
past life there lay, covered up and hidden away, a dark 
hour. No such light as had caused Emilia’s unheeded 


248 THE FAILURE OF EL/S A BETH. 

words to start to her memory had yet fallen on those still 
more unheeded words she had overheard at the Pension 
Werner years ago. In the next place, it had never once 
occurred to her that Mr. Holland had married her for her 
money. This was sufficiently explained by the fact that he 
hardly ever spoke of her money at all, and then only to 
allude to it somewhat slightingly, as if it furnished a motive 
for economy rather than for expenditure. No ; had she 
set herself to reason on so dreary a matter at all, her rea- 
soning might have led her to conclude that her fortune 
was too small to affect her husband one way or the other. 
Had she been able to bring him the wealth of Emilia ! she 
once thought, with a sigh. And yet Mr. Holland, on the 
rare occasions that he spoke of his sister, alluded, as she 
had remarked, with singular bitterness to the snares, the 
vanity, the emptiness of human riches. This was one of 
those contradictions that no good wife will attempt to ex- 
plain. Elisabeth, at any rate, set it aside in that private 
cabinet of disillusions on which she so resolutely turned 
lock and key, that Pandora’s box from which she dared 
not lift the lid, lest not hope but despair might be lurking 
at the bottom. And should it be affirmed that Elisabeth 
was too much of a coward, that the better choice is to con- 
front, not to evade or compound with the ills of life, it can 
only be answered that she was a coward in fact ; but that, 
after all (if one must excuse her), there are worse forms of 
cowardice than that which, at the opening of life, shrinks 
from the conscious desecration of the love and reverence 
and admiration that make the pure religion of a young 
soul. Elisabeth did her best to bury her head in the scanty 
sand of her desert ; the feat was an impossible one, but 
wlien not too much depressed by failure, she at least fan- 
cied herself the better for the effort. 

In that month of April in which we meet her again, 
Elisabeth, finding on her return home with her husband 
somewhat earlier in the spring than usual — finding Dulcie 
Fawcett waiting at the vicarage gate to receive them, more 
energetic, more versatile, more devoted than ever, did 
feel her heart sink within her. It seemed hard to her, 
then and later, that all her efforts and patience through 
the winter — Mr. Holland had been very ill fora time after 
their return to Westport, and Elisabeth had spent many 
hours at his bedside in company with the tarnished look- 
ing-glass and the squalid washing-stand — it seemed hard 
to her, I say, that all this should count for nothing appar- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 249 

ently in her husband’s favor, beside Dulcie’s neat parish- 
books and fluent parish-gossip. It would have greatly- 
surprised Mr. Holland to know that any such comparison 
had arisen in his wife’s mind. She was simply fulfilling 
her duty in nursing him ; for that, among other reasons, 
he had married her. And, in fact, this view of the question 
presently making its way into Elisabeth’s mind also, she 
owned its reasonableness and fell to reproaching herself as 
usual. Nevertheless, her heart sank at the prospect of the 
summer before them, and the mere mention of Venice had 
come to her as salvation ; not only because it was Venice 
(though that winged word held her like a spell), but be- 
cause it opened an escape from Thornton Briars and from 
Dulcie. Elisabeth had been hurt, she had been horribly 
hurt, by the discovery that her husband had spoken of his 
plans to Miss Fawcett before mentioning them to her ; but 
on such a point she was incapable of remonstrating with 
liim. Only a momentary courage, indeed, could have en- 
abled her to bring forward the subject at all. The cold 
indifference and languor with which her husband habit- 
ually met her remarks — the languor of an invalid who 
does not care to be disturbed by a companion in whose so- 
ciety he feels privileged to be dull — always discouraged 
her. No word concerning Gordon Temple had passed be- 
tween them. Elisabeth felt instinctively that his visit, 
which to her had been like a casement opening from a 
darkened room upon a sunny breadth of landscape, had 
been displeasing to her husband. She had not now, how- 
ever, to learn that he disapproved of his own family ; and, 
as she reflected on the fact, she began to wish that Gordon 
Temple had not come. And yet what pleasure, what pain 
dearer than pleasure, it had given her ! She sat darning 
her table-cloth by the hard light of the petroleum lamp, 
whilst a crowd of thoughts passed through her brain. It 
was on Schlossberg they fastened themselves at last ; 
Schlossberg was tugging at her heart-strings to-night. To 
go back there, to find the old days again, her room, her 
books, Frau Werner, the Sparrows — Elisabeth gave a sort 
of laugh at the thought of Mary Sparrow. If she could 
only see her stand there at the door, with her dull, honest 
face, to utter her dull honest speeches once more ! Elisa- 
beth felt that she loved her for the simple, brutal frankness 
that knew no guile. Yes ; if she had to choose between 
Schlossberg and Venice, Schlossberg, she thought (and yet 
Venice held her as with a spell), would be her choice. But, 


250 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


as she very well knew, the choice did not lie between Ven- 
ice and Schlossberg. Schlossberg was the one place to 
which her husband would never go. If they left Thorn- 
ton Briars at all, it might probably be to go to Venice ! 
And after all, Venice ! Elisabeth folded up the table-cloth 
she had been mending, replaced it in the basket, and 
clasping her hands behind her head, stood gazing at the 
dying embers of the fire. She was indulging, for once, in a 
splendid and conscious day-dream. Butin a moment she 
shook it off, with a rapid movement of the Iiead ; and 
taking up the basket of linen, she carried it back to the 
kitchen. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

A PIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 

About a fortnight later Elisabeth was standing on the 
little iron-railed balcony of a house in one of the narrower 
streets that run between the Strand and the Thames Em- 
bankment. It was one of those charming English spring 
days spared by the east wind, that in their temperate sun- 
shine, their sweet and youth-renewing breath, suggest, 
perhaps, as near an approach to Eden as this much-bat- 
tered world affords. Even in London the air seemed full 
of the twitter of birds, the scent of bursting buds and 
flowers; the sky was blue above the house-tops, the morn- 
ing sun shone fresh and warm on the dingy bricks. Elisa- 
beth, standing on the sooty balcony, felt, with a strange 
stirring of the heart, that life was good, that the world was 
young ; that she also was young, that all the possibilities 
of life might still be hers. It was like one of her Schloss- 
berg days of three years back transplanted into the heart 
of London. She held a book in her hand, but she was 
not reading ; she was looking down into the street below. 
There was not much to see. Hard by was the great tumult 
of the Strand ; but only an occasional cart, a rare cab, 
rattled down this quiet side-thoroughfare. Still, after 
Westport, after Thornton Briars, she found an interest in 
the prospect quite out of proportion to its actual merits ; 
that continuous roar of the great city close at hand stirred 
her blood, I say, to a strange excitement. She was not 
reading, though her finger kept her place in the volume 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 251 

she held. The book was “The Stones of Venice/’ and it 
had been sent her some few days back by her sister-in-law, 
Madame von Waldorf, on the part of her old friend, Gor- 
don Temple’s father. 

“ Gordon tells us,” Madame von Waldorf wrote, “ that 
there is some idea of your going to Venice, and my uncle 
immediately begged me to forward you the accompanying 
volume, in the hope that it will add to your pleasure there, 
as it did, some years ago, to his. You are also, he says, to 
write and tell him about everything you see ; he knows 
and loves Venice so well. He even talks of the possibility 
of getting there this spring, so as to be with Gordon, who 
has work, he tells us, that may detain him there for some 
months. I doubt myself that my uncle will be able to 
bear the journey, though, except for his lameness, he is 
very well ; but the plan pleases him, and we often talk it 
over. He dreams at night, he says, of being in a gondola 
once more. Should he really be able to accomplish it, Ida 
and I should accompany him, and Aunt Irma might prob- 
ably join us from Vienna ; so that if you and Robert were 
also there, we should be able to meet and see each other 
in the most delightful way possible. It gives me a great 
deal of pleasure, dear Lisa, to think of it. Only delight- 
ful schemes are too good for this world, I am afraid ; they 
so rarely come to pass ! But in any case, if you go to 
Venice, you may probably find some old Schlossberg 
friends there. You remember the Sparrows, do you not ? 
And do you remember a funny little cousin of theirs. Miss 
Robbins, who came out to join them? I never saw her 
myself ; but it appears that she and Frau Werner struck 
up an immense and sentimental friendship, and when the 
time arrived for Miss Robbins to go home, vowed, with 
floods of tears, that they could nev^er part again. Aunt 
Irrna, who, as you know, has always a hundred benevolent 
schemes on hand, and has a particular kindness for good 
Frau Werner, was struck with the happy idea of making 
a partnership between the two, and establishing Frau Wer- 
ner with a second pension at Venice, to be open during the 
spring and autumn months. Venice was selected, simply 
because a party of English, proceeding there after a winter 
at the Pension Werner, were lamenting the probable neces- 
sity of having to put up with less reasonable and less com- 
modious quarters. In ten minutes, so to speak — you know 
her way — Aunt Irma had arranged the whole business : 
engaged the second floor of an old palazzo, established 


252 THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 

Miss Robbins as temporary head of. the Schlossberg pen- 
sion, and sent off Frau Werner with her party to Venice. 
This was last year. The scheme has so far answered ad- 
mirably, and the two pensions continue to flourish. That 
at Venice was closed during the winter ; but Frau Werner 
started from here last week to reopen it, with various of 
her pensionnaires,, among whom, I believe, were the Spar- 
rows ; so you may chance to come across those queer peo- 
ple again. This is a long history, dear Elisabeth, but I 
fancy you retain a friendly interest in the Pension Werner, 
and it might have surprised you, had you, without warn- 
ing, suddenly come upon it in the heart of Venice. . . 

Elisabeth read this letter over her solitary breakfast in 
the dull mahogany and black horsehair dining-room at the 
vicarage — the room where the sunshine never came, and 
the dense laurel hedge outside almost shut out the sky ; 
and as she read, her hear begant to beat at all these high 
prospects that seemed opening out before her. No ; she 
would not look forward. Emilia was right — such things 
never came true ; and presently, when slie gave the letter 
to her husband to read, she began to wish Emilia had not 
written at all. It was a week after Gordon Temple’s visit, 
and Elisabeth was still ignorant of Mr. Holland’s decision 
concerning Venice. Possibly he had not come to any ; 
but in the existing relations between himself and his wife 
she had no means of ascertaining the fact. Nevertheless, 
certain phrases that had escaped him in the last day or 
two seemed to point more certainly in the direction of her 
hopes. When we leave home,” lie had said on one occa- 
sion ; If I accept my brother’s offer,” on another. But, as 
Elisabeth instantly felt, a nipping wind blew on these pos- 
sibly budding intentions from Madame von Waldorf’s letter. 
He turned it over before reading it, studied the embossed 
monogram in the corner — it was a trick he had with her 
letters ; Elisabeth knew it so well that she had more than 
once thought of begging Emilia to write to her on an un- 
stamped sheet — and shook the paper a little, as though to 
shake off any lingering scent of roses that might cling to it. 
Then he read it in silence, and in silence meditated on it 
for a moment. 

If one thing more than another,” he said then in his 
deliberate tones, returning the letter to Elisabeth, “would 
keep me away from Venice, it would be the prospect of 
meeting the Schlossberg party there.” 

Elisabeth’s heart sank. “ The Sparrows,” she said, 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


253 


after a moment’s pause ; they will be there also, you 
see.” 

“What has that to do with it ? ” he answered. “The 
Sparrows will not shield me from an impertinence both cal- 
culated and covert, and from which I have endured more 
than enough.” 

“ Oh,” said Elisabeth, coloring, “ I am sure — I am sure 
that Emilia ” 

“We need not discuss the matter,” said her husband, in- 
terrupting her. “ Kindly fetch the prayer-book from tliat 
table, my dear, and then you can read the Psalms for 
the day.” 

Elisabeth was not altogether in the mood for pious exer- 
cises ; but reading aloud was one of the few services her 
husband voluntarily demanded of her, and she willingly 
complied. This was some ten days ago ; and Venice had 
not again been mentioned between tliem. As Elisabeth 
stood on the little balcony this morning, gazing down into 
the street, she knew nothing of what their next destination 
was to be ; nor did she, to say the truth, for the moment 
greatly care. They had left Thornton Briars because two 
days of bitter east wind had so prostrated Mr. Holland that 
he had been peremptorily ordered by his doctor to seek a 
milder climate for the next six weeks ; and they had come 
to London because some legal business, involving the sig- 
nature of certain papers, demanded Elisabeth’s presence. 
Some lodgings, recommended to Mr. Holland as cheap and 
convenient, had been secured, and for the last five or six 
days they had been in town. To Elisabeth these days had 
given some hours of extreme pleasure. To have left Thorn- 
ton Briars and Dulcie, and not to be at Westport, was in 
itself an extraordinary relief. Never, since the early 
months of their marriage, had she had her husband to her- 
self in the same way ; and he, slie fancied, was more cheer- 
ful, more genial to her than he had been for a long time 
back. Perhaps if they could be alone together for a while, 
all might yet be well ; she might start afresh ; she might 
be able to please him, and lose that dreary sense of be- 
ing always in the wrong that oppressed her. But apart 
from this, the mere fact that she was in London was a de- 
light to Elisabeth. She had not been there since her mar- 
riage, not since the time when she spent her holidays with 
her uncle and aunt in Cadogan Place ; not since that event- 
ful morning when she sprang from her bed at dawn of day 
to start on a rapturous journey through an unknown world, 


254 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


that was to lead to such unlooked-for ends. She had al- 
most forgotten the roar and murmur of the great city, the 
sensation of miles of human beings on every side ; of be- 
ing, as it were, at the very centre of life, of listening to its 
multitudinous throb. It moved her strangely ; her imagi- 
nation, half starved on the scanty fare furnished it in these 
last years, sprang into excitement ; she longed to go every- 
where — to the parks, to the City, to St. Paul’s, to the Na- 
tional Gallery and the Tower. For the moment, however, 
her aspirations were limited to the Thames Embankment. 
It would do her husband good, she felt sure, on a morning 
so exquisite as this, to stroll a little along the wide pave- 
ment, to sit for an hour on one of the convenient benches, 
and gaze on the smoky traffic of the shining river. To in- 
duce Mr. Holland to do anything, however, was a task — 
Elisabeth had long since discovered that — almost beyond 
her powers. More than once formerly, she had shed bitter 
tears over the trivial obstinacy that resisted, often to un- 
toward results, for the mere sake of resistance. She mind- 
ed less now ; she was accustomed to it, and only did lier 
best so to act as not to arouse an unreasoning opposition. 
It was an odious necessity ; and not the least tragic part of 
Elisabeth’s life, perhaps, lay in the fact that the poor child 
had almost ceased to perceive how odious it was. 

The chimes of some neighboring church struck three- 
quarters past ten. Elisabeth left the balcony, and pass- 
ing through the long window that opened to the floor, 
entered the little sitting-room. It was a dingy apartment, 
with almost as much black horsehair and mahogany as her 
dining-parlor at home ; but it was clean ; the morning sun 
shone in ; it did well enough. Elisabeth tied on her little 
black straw bonnet, which was lying on a chair. To dress 
as if to go out — that was her idea — and then it would per- 
haps occur to her husband to propose to go with her. She 
tied on her bonnet and rang the bell for the beef-tea that 
he always took at eleven (the question of the beef-tea, it 
may be mentioned, had settled itself, Mr. Holland’s fit of 
obstinacy not surviving the conversation that had pro- 
voked it ; that happened sometimes, much to Elisabeth’s 
relief). She took the little tray when it appeared, and was 
about to carry it into the adjoining room, when the door 
communicating between the two apartments opened, and 
Mr. Holland came in. The change to London liad done 
him good for the moment, at any rate ; he was looking 
stronger than when Gordon Temple saw him, his color 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


255 


was better, his movements, always slow, indicated a weak- 
ness less extreme. He sank at once, however, into an arm- 
chair, and held out his hand for the cup that Elisabeth of- 
fered him. 

‘‘ That is right, my dear ; that is what I wanted,” he said, 
with more kindness in his voice than it always held for 
her. He took the cup and drank off its contents. It was 
a pale, a not very inviting-looking fluid ; the lodging-house 
cook, as Elisabeth had at once discovered with dismay, 
was one of the worst qualified of her class. Mr. Holland, 
however, was not particular ; indeed, his indifference to, 
his want of perception rather, of the difference between 
good cooking and bad, might by many people have been 
accounted a serious moral deficiency. He set his cup down 
now without a remark. 

‘‘My dear,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “ I have 
come to a decision that I hope will give you pleasure. I 
have decided to goto Venice.” 

Elisabeth felt an immense throb of joy. “ Oh, yes,” she 
said. “ I am glad — I am glad ! ” 

“Well,” he said, “I am glad too, to have been able to 
meet your wishes. I imagined that they tended in that 
direction.” He paused ; his last remark might have seemed 
an invitation to his wife for an expression of her private 
hopes and desires ; but Elisabeth's past experience did not 
lead her to interpret it as such. 

“ When do you think of going ?” she said at last, with 
some timidity. 

“Well, I thought in about a week,” he answered. “We 
have been here — how long? Five, six days? We might 
take the rooms on for another week ; they are commodious 
enough and not at all expensive. I am glad I applied 
to Cockerell for an address ; Cockerell is always to be re- 
lied on.” 

He paused again. Elisabeth was silent, though she 
wondered why they should remain on in London, since her 
legal business was already concluded. Half an hour ago, 
she would have been content — she had thought so — to stay 
on there indefinitely ; now, could she have had her will, 
she could have packed their portmanteaus, called a cab, 
and been off within an hour. She stood silent, however, 
and in half a minute Mr. Holland spoke again : 

“ My dear, I should be glad of the railway-rug over my 
knees ; I feel rather chilly. Thank you, that is better,” as 
Elisabeth arranged it for him. “ I was about to say,” he 


256 THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 

went on, leaning back again in his chair, “that since leav- 
ing Thornton Briars I have been having some correspond- 
ence witli Dr. Fawcett that has influenced my final decis- 
ion in regard to Venice.*' 

“ Oh, does he approve of the climate for you ? ” said 
Elisabeth. “Tm glad of that— oh, I feel sure that you will 
get better there.” 

“Oh, he doubtless approves,” said Mr. Holland; “but 
he lias not been there, my dear, any more than I have ; I 
imagine myself, on that point, to be as good a judge as he. 
What I was going to say is, that he has influenced my de- 
cision by giving me an opportunity I am glad to avail my- 
self of, to make some return for all the kindness he has 
shown me at different times. He has written to beg that 
Dulcie may accompany us.” 

Elisabeth stood motionless and speechless ; she could 
not have spoken. This was worse than Westport — worse 
than Thornton Briars. 

“Dulcie, it appears,” Mr. Holland went on, “has been 
ailing all the winter, and her father has been anxious that 
she should have some change. As soon as she heard there 
was some prospect of our going to Venice, the possibility 
of accompanying us occurred to her. But she behaved 
with a great deal of nice feeling ; she would not suggest 
it even to her father, so long as we were at Thornton 
Briars, for fear of embarrassing me in the event of my not 
wishing to consent.” 

He paused. Elisabeth was still speechless. At last she 
found her voice. 

“You shall consent ?” she said. 

“ Undoubtedly, m)" dear, I shall consent. In fact, I have 
already written to say so in this letter, which you will per- 
haps post for me, as you seem to be going out.” 

He laid the letter on the table. Elisabeth looked at it ; 
she did not touch it. All at once she colored extremely. 

“I think ” she began, in a voice that was half au- 

dible. She recovered herself. “The question is one that 
concerns me also, Robert,” she said. 

“Do you mean that you object ?” he answered, looking 
at her. “ What is your objection ? ” 

Elisabeth made no answer. The strong feeling she en- 
tertained toward Dulcie was one so personal to herself, it 
touched her conscience and her pride alike so intimately, 
that she could not bring it forward ; the day for such frank 
explanations as that between her husband and herself was 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 257 

past. There might be indeed another, and, as she knew, 
a very sufficient objection in Mr. Holland’s eyes — that of 
expense ; but she could not persuade herself to speak of that. 
She could not have borne, even remotely, to try and serve 
her own ends by appealing to her liusband’s failings. It 
was a point, however, that Mr. Holland, on his part, found 
no difficulty whatever in treating with perfect frankness. 

“Of course,” he said, “ Dulcie’s being with us will en- 
tail no extra expense. Otherwise, whatever my wishes 
might be, I should be unable to consent to the arrange- 
ment. But her father not only pays (that is a matter of 
course) for her journey, but he proposes a fairly adequate 
sum for her weekly board while she is with us ; so there 
will be no difficulty on that score.” 

“Oh, but we couldn’t allow that — could we ?” said Elis- 
abeth, in haste, and faltering. “ I mean, you have so often 
said that Dr. Fawcett will never take a fee — and it is your 
brother’s house, and for a fe.w weeks only ” 

She broke off as her husband looked at her with a frigid 
eye. “Ail that,” he said, “lies so entirely within my own 
judgment, that we need not discuss it. I am sorry that 
you should not wish Dulcie to accompany us. I have, as 
you suggest, a sense of obligation to Dr. Fawcett, and it 
is my particular desire that she should.” 

Elisabeth was silenced. Then the wretched nature of 
the scheme, the dull spectacle of all her own tarnished 
hopes and plans, wrought upon her, and she spoke again 
with a sort of passion. 

“ Don’t let us go to Venice,” she said ; “let us give it up 
altogether, unless you are sure that it will do you more 
good than anything else. Let us stay on here ; you have 
been much better since you came. Let us stay on in Lon- 
don.” 

Mr. Holland made a movement of impatience. “I 
think,” he said, mildly enough, however, “ it is useless to 
argue the point further. I have made my decision, and I 
do not propose to alter it. I can only regret that you 
should take so unreasonable and selfish a view of the mat- 
ter. You are both selfish and unreasonable, Elisabeth. I 
should have imagined, from your own point of view even, 
the plan to have many advantages. I leave you a good 
deal alone ; I often regret that I am unable to be more 
with you ; but in Dulcie you will have a companion of 
your own age. You have tastes in common, probably ; 
you like each other ” 

17 


258 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


“No!’’ said Elisabeth, clasping and unclasping her 
hands ; “ I do not like her ; and she doesn’t like me.” 

“ You are wrong,” said Mr. Holland, with gravity ; “you 
appear, in fact, to have taken an altogether unreasonable 
and unreasoning dislike to her ; but she likes you very 
much — she has often spoken to me of you in terms of affec- 
tionate kindness.” 

“She has no business to speak of me at all!” cried 
Elisabeth, moved to sudden indignation. She walked to 
the window, and stood for a moment with her back to the 
room. “ I am going out,” she said then, almost inarticu- 
lately ; and gathering up her gloves, she swept like a 
flame from the house. 

Her steps led her to the embankment ; and she walked 
along it nearly a mile without realizing her course. The 
spring air, the jocund aspect of the day, said nothing to 
her now ; she walked and walked in a simple, blind long- 
ing to get away. To escape was always Elisabeth’s first 
instinct at each crisis of her fate, to free herself, to solve 
her difficult problems through a flight into liberty. The 
imprisoning conditions of life, the hard bonds of the inev- 
itable, chafed and exasperated her, at such moments, 
more than solid bolts and bars could have done. She felt 
suffocated as she walked along ; she felt as if she must put 
miles between herself and her husband before she could 
again breathe freely. But very soon the first whirl of 
passion subsided ; her pace slackened, and presently, she 
sat down on one of the benches facing the river, to think. 
The sweet and generous influence of the day began to 
make itself felt again ; it was like a rallying hand laid on 
her shoulder, bidding her be of good cheer, since the world 
could still look so glad. Elisabeth could not feel very 
cheerful ; on the contrary, she felt completely miserable ; 
but she rose after awhile, and began to walk onward with 
a more composed step. She could not go back yet ; the 
little sitting-room she had left seemed still haunted by the 
odious, desecrating scene she had just been through. Yes, 
it was odious, it was desecrating, that was how she felt it ; 
she never got used to contentions with her husband ; they 
seemed to sully her finest aspirations, to cast her out into 
some place haunted by all manner of evil spirits. She 
could not go back yet ; but in the softer mood that was 
coming over her, she thought she would, after all, fulfil a 
half-formed purpose of the early morning. She had 
thought, while tying lier bonnet strings, that if she could 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


259 


not induce her husband to take a walk, she would go her- 
self and visit the church where, in former years, he had 
been curate. It was a sort of pious pilgrimage she had 
long ago proposed to herself, but had never yet had the 
opportunity to carry out. Mr. Holland had once happened 
to mention to her — it was in the earliest days of their mar- 
ried life — that he had, for a year or two, been curate at a 
church in a certain populous London district. The words 
had escaped him unawares, probably ; certainly he had 
had no desire to emphasize them ; but it so happened that 
the church — St. John Martyr was its name — though old- 
fashioned, and lying somewhat out of the way, was not so 
remote from the more fashionable quarter in which her 
uncle and aunt lived as to be unknown to Elisabeth. Once 
or twice even, as she recalled with delighted surprise at 
the coincidence, she had walked there to afternoon service 
with her nurse ; she lost herself in speculations as to 
whether she might not unwittingly have heard her future 
husband preach, or, at the very least, read the afternoon 
prayers. But Mr. Holland showed so little interest in the 
discussion, he turned the subject at last so abruptly, that 
Elisabeth never alluded to the matter again. The wish 
to visit the church remained, nevertheless, in her mind ; 
and now, in the duller misery that succeeded the first 
hurry of her passion, she determined to carry it out. She 
felt as if there, in the old parish church for which he had 
worked, in which he had ministered, she might find her 
husband again ; not as she had left him just now, nor as 
she had come to know him in these later years ; but as she 
had imagined and found him (so she had thought) on that 
distant Sunday in Schlossberg, when she had heard him 
preach. Surely her idea of him then had had some exist- 
ence in fact. 

She left the embankment, turned up one of the streets 
to the Strand, and presently hailing an omnibus that would 
suit her purpose — she had made some acquaintance with 
omnibuses in these last few days — desired the conductor 
to set her down at the point nearest her destination. That 
rude, jostling, jarring drive through the crowded streets, 
confronting her with indifferent faces coming and going, 
calmed Elisabeth’s agitation as nothing else could have 
done. She still felt unhappy enough, since nothing of 
what made her unhappy was changed ; but a quieter mood 
succeeded. All the heat of her passion and the anger of 
it were gone bj the time she left the omnibus ; turning 


26 o 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


down a quiet side street, she found herself at the point 
she sought. 

It was an old brown brick church, with square-paned, 
round-arched windows, a doorway with a classic pediment, 
an incongruous steeple, and that air of drowsy repose, of 
well-cushioned unquestioning faith, finding the material 
for many a simple and holy life between the high walls of 
a pew and the old brown boards of the Church of England 
Prayer-book, that may well inspire a tearing, sensational, 
iconoclastic generation with a passing reverence for those 
old ugly brick churches of a more tranquil, if not a worthier 
past. The outer door stood open, and behind the inner 
green baize an indefinite murmur told that some noon- 
day service w^as being held. Elisabeth entered the build- 
ing and slipped into a seat ; not because she was especially 
in the mood to say her prayers — indeed, that whole ques- 
tion of prayer-saying, on which her marriage was to have 
thrown such sunlight illumination, was fallen into some- 
wliat sad bewilderment in our heroine’s brain — but because, 
having come to see the church, she thought herself fortu- 
nate in finding it open. She sank into a high-pewed seat 
then, while the prayers and litanies went on, with no 
great thought of what she was doing ; till presently some- 
thing in the way in which the service was being read, 
something just and sympathetic in voice and intonation, 
made her raise her head and look at the reader. It was 
no shadow of her husband that she saw; no one less like 
her husband could be imagined. A white-haired old man 
— he miglit be the rector, she supposed — occupied the 
reading desk ; a tall old man, with a slight stoop and 
a brown and wrinkled kindly face. Soothed by his voice 
and by the sense of his presence, Elisabeth dropped her 
head again and let her thoughts wander. Stings of re- 
pentance began to assail her. Sunshine and blue sky 
looked in through the clear-paned windows ; a sparrow 
chirped with obtrusive cheerfulness ; a boy’s irrelevant 
whistle rose shrilly outside above the pious monotony 
within. Elisabeth thought, with the keenest self-reproach, 
of her husband sitting alone in the dull little lodging- 
house parlor where she had left him. Why had she left 

him ? Because Dulcie The name tore at Elisabeth’s 

new found repentance and half destroyed it. She could 
not bear to think of Dulcie ; and that she could not bear 
it was still the deepest injury — so it seemed to her — that 
Dulcie had done her yet. Selfish ? Yes^ it might be self- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


261 


ish ; but if so, there lay the sharpest sting. Her feeling 
toward Dulcie besmirched all her life ; it robbed it of its 
finer quality ; it seemed to compel her to a lower view. If 
Dulcie were but different ! But Dulcie was Dulcie, and 
she was she ; these were the facts of life that no penitential 
pangs could alter. A storm of contending passions rose 
again and shook Elisabeth as she knelt through the con- 
cluding prayers. The prayers were ended presently, and 
she could kneel there no longer ; the benediction was 
pronounced; the meagre congregation was quickly gone 
from the church. Elisabeth had risen with the rest, but 
she did not immediately depart; she would so willingly 
have found some calm, some touch in harmony with the 
quiet place, before she left. It was not Dulcie’s im- 
portunate image she had come here to find, but her hus- 
band’s ; and now, instead of either, it was herself she saw, 
as she stood and looked about her — herself, a little eight- 
year-old child, with rough untidy locks that always brought 
her into trouble, staring up from her nurse’s side through 
the long yawning lessons and sermon at the queer old 
monuments that adorned the walls.. The monuments were 
there still ; it seemed strange to Elisabeth that it should be 
so, when that little child was gone forever. She was gaz- 
ing up at one of them, though hardly seeing what she 
looked at, when a black-bonneted pew-opener accosted 
her. 

beg pardon, miss,” she said ; *^but Fm just going to 
shut up the church.” 

Elisabeth started and turned to go ; but in the same mo- 
ment the white-haired clergyman who had read the service 
approached them from the vestry. He looked at Elisa- 
beth for a moment with a kindly eye, then addressed 
himself to the woman. 

“No hurry, no hurry, Mrs. Parsons,” he said; “this 
lady would perhaps like to see the church. We are very 
proud of our monuments,” he continued, turning to Eli- 
zabeth. “ I don’t know whether you are interested in such 
things.”' 

“ I’m afraid I don’t know much about them,” said Elisa- 
beth, blushing ; “ but I remember seeing these when I was 
a child. I have never been here since.” 

The old clergyman looked at her again, pleased by her 
youthful bloom, her slim grace, her glance, at once diffi- 
dent and candid. “ Ah, you would appreciate them more 
now, I am sure,” he said. “ Do allow me the pleasure of 


262 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


showing them to you. I think a great deal of them ; they 
give me a vast amount of trouble to keep just in the right 
state of preservation, and I like them the better for the 
trouble they give.” 

Elisabeth, glad to be diverted from the tragic contem- 
plation of her own futile history, followed the old man 
round the church. Her interest, a little wandering at first, 
was speedily caught and held, and pleased by her ready 
intelligence, her conductor presently proposed that she 
should accompany him to the vestry, and look at some 
curious old books preserved there. Elisabeth made no 
demur ; she was glad to have something to engage her 
mind altogether apart from the dreary details of her life. 
She followed her new acquaintance willingly, and, seated 
at the vestry table, began turning over one and another of 
the volumes he produced from some ancient cupboard in 
the wall. As the last was closed, she looked up at him. 

Thank you for the trouble you have taken,” she said, 
in her shy way ; it has all interested me very much. 
And it interests me the more,” she went on, ‘‘because my 
husband was once curate in this church. That was what 
brought me here to-day. I wanted to see it.” 

“ Your husband, my dear young lady ! ” said the old 
clergyman. It had not occurred to him that Elisabeth 
was married. Her diffident manner, her simple dress and 
slim girlish form still gave her at times the aspect of a shy 
school-girl. 

“ Yes ; he was curate here for two years. I don’t know 
if you will remember him,” said Elisabeth, coloring a little. 

“If he has been curate,” said the old man, smiling, “any 
time within these six-and-twenty years, I shall certainly 
remember him, for that is the time I have spent in this 
parish. Might I inquire his name ?” 

“ Oh, you will know him,” said Elisabeth, pleased. 
Her new acquaintance had inspired her with confidence. • 
“It is only twelve or fourteen years,” she continued, 

“ since my husband was curate here. His name is Rob- 
ert Holland.” 

“ Robert Holland !” said the old clergyman. He looked 
at her in amazement. “ My dear young lady, do you mean 
to tell me that you are Robert Holland’s wife ? Excuse 
me,” he went on immediately. “I knew your husband 
very well, of course. He worked with me for two years, 
But I have lost sight of him latterly. I heard his health 
had broken down ; but I bad no idea that he was married,’^ 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


263 


We have been married nearly three years,” said Elisa- 
beth, simply, and rather sadly ; it seemed a short formula 
to express so much of her life. The old man looked at 
her again, studying her face with his shrewd benevolent 
eye. 

You have taken me by surprise,” he explained at last ; 
“ but I am glad to have met you — to have made your ac- 
quaintance,” he said, with a kind and courteous smile, ‘‘and 
to hear of your husband again. I have not seen him since 
he left me, but I followed his career for some years with 
great interest. He has spoken of me to you, perhaps.” 

• “I — I think not,” said Elisabeth, slightly confused. 
“No, I’m sure he has not,” she went on, with more assur- 
ance, “for he has never told me anything about his life 
here ; he only happened to mention once that he had been 
curate at this church. I’m sure I shoald have remem- 
bered if he had mentioned you.” 

She smiled in her turn — the shy smile that gave a cliarrn- 
ing expression to her brown eyes. But her companion 
did not immediately respond ; he sat looking at her seri- 
ously ; his mind seemed to be searching the past. 

“ Robert Holland ! ” he said again, in a moment. “ Well, 
well, it is only natural he should have not mentioned me : 
tliat is only natural. It’s a good many years since we 
parted. I was sorry,” he went on, addressing Elisabeth 
more directly and with some abruptness, “ to hear that 
his health had broken down. That was some time ago, 
and I take shame to myself that I have never made 
further inquiries. But the years seem shorter to me now 
than the months, I dare say, seem to you, and I only now 
realize how long it is since I heard of his illness. But he 
is better, I trust.” 

“ He is — no, he is not much better,’* said Elisabeth. “ I 
sometimes think he is ; but he’s not able to do much. We 
are on our way now to Italy for the spring.” 

“Ah, well, that is excellent for an invalid — excellent,” 
said the old man ; “you escape the east winds. You are 
staying in London, perhaps, on your way ? I should like 
to come and see your husband.” 

“ Oh, that would be very kind of you. I will tell him ; 
he’ll be pleased,” said Elisabeth. “ We are to be in Lon- 
don a week longer ; I will give you our address. And I 
must be going,” she said, starting up in consternation as 
her eye fell upon a clock, <‘We dine at two; I shall bq 
late/’ 


264 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


She pulled out a card, wrote her address hastily in pen- 
cil, and gave it to her new acquaintance. He presented 
her with a card in return, inscribed with the name of the 
Reverend Arthur Brudenel. 

‘‘That is my name,” he said; “and tell your husband 
from me how much pleasure it will give me to see him 
again. I will try to come to-morrow afternoon. And 
now, if you must go, will you allow me to see you to a 
cab ? ” 

“ I think,” said Elisabeth, coloring, “ I had better take 
an omnibus ; it’s rather far.” 

“ Ah, I dare say you are right,” he answered ; “ the; 
omnibuses are very convenient ; and if you will permit 
me, I will see that you take one that will set you down at 
the top of your street. You will find yourself at home, I 
think, in plenty of time.” 

They left the church together. In a moment Mr. 
Brudenel spoke again. 

“ I am grieved,” he said, “ that you cannot give a better 
account of your husband. I’m afraid he broke down 
originally from overwork.” 

“Yes,” Elisabeth answered; “and he will overwork 
himself still when we are at home. I am glad for that 
reason that we are going to Venice. He can’t do any 
parish work there.” 

“Ah, he was always a tremendous fellow for work — and 
obstinate about it too,” said her companion, smiling. “I 
used to tell him that no one was expected to pull down a 
wall and build it up again in a day — that was his notion 
of setting to work ! I don’t wonder he knocked himself 
up at last.” He was silent for a minute. “ I am sincerely 
glad,” he said then, “to have come across him again. You 
know, Mrs. Holland, your husband was quite a young fel- 
low when he was with me ; it was his first curacy, and I 
took an interest in him, as I might have done in a boy of 
my own. Tell him from me — tell him from me — but no,” 
he said checking himself, “ tell him nothing except the 
pleasure I shall have in seeing him again. I will certainly 
come to-morrow afternoon.” 

“ Thank you ; I’ll tell him,” said Elisabeth. They had 
reached the main road, and she held out her hand as she 
spoke. She felt a great confidence in her new acquaint- 
ance, with his wise and kindly glance ; she felt that if he 
had known anything of her troubles, he might, perhaps, 
have been able to help her. Elisabeth .had had one great 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


265 


deception, but she had not yet lost her belief in the power 
of people wiser than herself to help her set her crooked 
ways straight. Possibly the old clergyman divined some- 
thing of her not very complicated feelings. He shook 
hands with her kindly. 

‘‘ I am very glad to have met you,” he said again ; ^^and 
pray remember, if I can assist you at any time, how gladly 
I shall do so. I am — I have always desired to be — your 
husband’s friend.” 

He hailed a passing omnibus as he spoke. Elisabeth 
jumped in, and the next moment was being carried on 
her way. 

She went on her way, but in a different mood from that 
in whicli she had made the same jolting journey an hour 
before. The current of her thoughts had been changed ; 
she could think not uncheerfuliy now, even of Dulcie. 
After all, things might turn out quite otherwise than she 
imagined. Venice was not Thornton Briars ; Dulcie 
could at least have no neat parish-books to produce there ; 
and, after all, how selfish — how selfish of her not to be 
glad of anything that could make her husband’s sad life a 
little brighter ! She would tell him so when she got home ; 
she would post the letter to Dr. Fawcett before she took 
off her bonnet. Something is risked, I am aware, in be- 
traying these unheroic workings of Elisabeth’s mind ; the 
tragic passions of life, of love and jealousy and remorse, 
are worked out, it may be said, on other lines than these. 

Nevertheless, it is occasionally found that a contempla- 
tion of the eternities, of the tremendous issues of existence, 
of the great chess-board where good and evil spirits play 
with souls for pawns, may be less efficacious to bring 
about a rational way of looking at things than a simple 
change of ideas that shifts the shadows, so to speak, and 
lets in a flicker of sunlight across the gloom. This was 
what her meeting with Mr. Brudenel had done for Elisa- 
beth ; more than this, it had brought her for a brief space 
under that rare and finest influence — the influence of a 
character: ripened to wisdom through goodness, to which 
a nature like Elisabeth’s could never r emain unresponsive. 
Decidedly, the ways of life seemed less difficult to her than 
when she left home some two or three hour's before. 

It is a drawback to that fine medicine of a change of 
ideas that the efficacy of the remedy is apt to be shor t- 
lived ; on the whole, perhaps, the eternities stand us in 
better stead. Already, as the house-door closed upon 


266 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


Elisabeth, and she ascended the dingy stairs, the old at- 
mosphere began to close around her. She entered the 
little sitting-room softly, a habit she had acquired in the 
fear of her disturbing her husband should he happen to 
have fallen asleep. Mr. Holland was not asleep, however ; 
the cloth was laid for their early dinner, and he was 
seated at a side table writing. Elisabeth glanced at a 
clock on the mantel-piece ; to her relief she perceived that 
it still wanted some minutes to two. She began moving 
about the room quietly, looking for her husband’s letter. 
Presently he turned round. 

‘‘ You are in want of something ?” he said. 

I was looking for your letter to Dr. Fawcett,” said 
Elisabeth, with humility. ‘‘I should have time, I thought, 
to post it before taking off my bonnet.” 

It is posted,” replied Mr. Holland ; I took it myself.” 
He also glanced at the clock. ‘‘ It is close upon dinner- 
time,” he said ; I begged that it might be served punct- 
ually.” 

Elisabeth went to take off her bonnet, the clieerful flicker 
effectually put out. It is one thing to propose the peni- 
tential posting of a vexed argument ; it is another to find 
the argument posted and disposed of in one’s absence, the 
final word spoken without giving another chance of appeal. 
She said nothing, however, on her return to the sitting- 
room, and the dinner passed, as it often did, almost in si- 
lence. The silence was nothing in itself ; but when it fell 
as the sequel of a dispute, it was almost unbearable to 
Elisabeth ; it seemed to mark the distance between herself 
and her husband, to show their common life worn thread- 
bare. It vexed her the more now that she wanted to tell 
him of her meeting with Mr. Brudenel that morning ; the 
terms in which the old man had spoken of his former cu- 
rate had warmed her own heart ; and here at least, she felt 
sure, was a chance to give pleasure to her husband. She 
took some needlework after dinner and seated herself near 
him, watching for an occasion to speak. Mr. Holland had 
taken up a newspaper, and holding it as a screea between 
them, made any attempt at conversation hopeless for the 
moment. Presently, however, he laid it down, and began 
to wrap a plaid he sometimes wore about his shoulders. 
Elisabeth rose to help him. 

“ Are you cold ? Would you like a fire ?” she said. 

^^Well, not on a warm day like this,” he answered, 
“ Thank you, my dear, that will do/* 


THE FAlLVkE OF ELISABETH. 267 

Elisabeth sat down. She had been conscious, while mak- 
ing it, of the reckless extravagance of the proposal, and 
did not feel too much rebuffed. In a moment she spoke 
again. 

“The sun has gone off the room now,” she said. “It 
was warmer this morning — and out of doors, too, it was 
like a summer day. I had thought you would perhaps 
come out with me for a little while ; only then I went 
alone. I am sorry I went out as I did.” 

She laid her hand on her husband’s knee as she spoke. 
Possibly Mr. Holland’s conscience also was a little uneasy ; 
or perhaps having taken his own way had had a mollify- 
ing effect. There seems always a chance that in taking 
one’s own way one has driven Providence to enlist on the 
other side. At any rate, he answered not unkindly: 

“Lost your temper, eh?” he said, laying his hand on 
hers. “ But you lose your temper a little too readily, my 
dear. What do you think yourself?” 

“ Oh, I am sorry,” said Elisabeth. The least touch of 
kindness always awakened a large response in her heart ; 
she took her husband’s chilly hand and folded it in both 
her own, as though to infuse into it new warmth and life. 

“ I wanted to tell you,” she said, “ where I went this 
morning. I went as far as the church where you told me 
you had once been curate.” 

“The church where I was curate ? ” said Mr. Holland 
slowly, looking at her. “ And what, my dear, if I may in- 
quire, took you there ?” 

“ I wanted to see it,” said Elisabeth, coloring a little. 
“Of course I care to see any place you have had anything 
to do with ; and as there was a service going on I was 
able to go in. The clergyman who read the service 
took me round the church afterward to look at the monu- 
ments, and then into the vestry to see some curious old 
books. His name is .Brudenel ; he has been there twenty- 
six years, and he begged me to tell you that he remembers 
you very well, and all the hard work you used to do in the 
parish. He was very glad to hear of you again, and wants 
to see you. He asked for our address, and is coming to- 
morrow afternoon.” 

This simple relation of facts, by which Elisabeth had 
hoped to give some pleasure to her husband — she had 
purposely told her story in unimpassioned style, so as to 
rouse in him no antagonistic emotion — won no immediate 
response from Mr. Holland. He only withdrew his hand 


268 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


from his wife’s and drew his plaid closer round his shoul- 
ders. I am much obliged by his remembrance,” he said 
at last. I should have thought it more likely he had 
forgotten me. It is many years since we have had any- 
thing to do with each other. My dear, I believe you are 
right, and that this room has grown chilly. I think I will 
go into the back room and rest until tea-time. I shall have 
the afternoon sun there, and it will be warmer.” 

‘‘ Oh ! ” cried Elisabeth, starting up ; “ you do look pale ; 
you do look cold ! Let me get you some brandy at once. 
Oh, I hope you have not taken a chill !” 

She was flying to fetch his travelling-flask, fearing one, 
of his occasional attacks of faintness ; but Mr. Holland 
prevented her. 

‘‘Thank you, my dear; that is quite unnecessary,” he 
said. “ I feel a little cold and rather fatigued, but I will 
go and lie down for an hour or two. That is all that I 
need. Don’t disturb me till tea-time.” 

He reappeared with the tea-tray without w^aiting to be 
called. Elisabeth, who knew every shade of change in her 
husband’s manner, saw at once that he was in no unkindly 
mood. She had lighted the fire, after all, on her own re- 
sponsibility ; he sat down by it, spreading out his hands 
to the blaze, without a word of remonstrance. There was 
something subdued — indeed, something unusual — in his 
manner, that she did not altogether understand. He had 
not slept, he told her, but he felt rested, he felt better ; and 
he sat drinking his tea and warming himself silently, with 
an apparent appreciation of the comforts provided for 
him. Only later in the evening he entered into any con- 
versation. 

“ My dear,” he said then, “ kindly look in Bradshaw, and 
tell me what are the morning trains to Dover.” 

“ To Dover ? ” said Elisabeth, with some surprise. “ There 
is the boat-express ” 

“Not the express — it is more expensive, and on the 
whole more fatiguing. There must be other trains that 
would take us down.” 

“Not to meet the boat,” said Elisabeth, consulting her 
volume ; “ we should have to spend some hours in Dover 
if we took any other.” 

“I am thinking of spending a day or two there,” said 
Mr. Holland; “I doubt if London — or perhaps it is only 
this lodging — altogether agrees with me. Our week here 
ends to-morrow. I propose, therefore, that we should 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 269 

leave to-morrow morning and rest a day or two at Dover 
before going further. There is not much to do in the way 
of packing, 1 suppose?” 

“ No, oh no ! ” said Elisabeth. She was amazed beyond 
words by her husband’s proposition. Nothing could be 
more unlike his usual deliberate arrangements, his care- 
ful weighing of relative expenses, his reluctance to aban- 
don a course of action once decided on. For herself, she 
was well content. Since to Venice they were going — and, 
after all, no thought of Dulcie could wholly tarnish that 
word of delight — every step onward was a gain. Already 
beyond the narrow seas the shining shores seemed to beck- 
on her ; already she could hear the great throb of the boat 
that would bear them across. Meanwhile she was amazed. 
^‘What — what about Dulcie?” she said, after a brief 
silence ; ‘‘was she not to join us here ? ” 

“That must be arranged,” said Mr. Holland; “I will 
write to her — or you, my dear, can write her a line to tell 
her to meet us at Dover. I am sorry she should lose her 
week in London ; but she is a good girl ; she will be con- 
tent with any arrangement I may make.” 

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Elisa- 
beth longed to question him ; she longed to say “ Why ?” 
But such inquiries, as she had long since come to know, 
were futile. She said no more ; she looked out a train, 
and then began to move quietly about the room, collect- 
ing a few books and other properties that were scattered 
about. Presently Mr. Holland also rose, and seating him- 
self at the centre table, drew toward him the lamp and some 
writing materials and began to write. Elisabeth watched 
him for a minute, then came and stood behind him. 

“ Is there nothing I can do for you ? ” she said, with diffi- 
dence ; “you look so tired — I think you ought to rest.” 

She laid her hand on his shoulder as she spoke, a caress- 
ing movement on which she rarely ventured. Her hus- 
band took it not amiss. He paused in his writing to 
answer her. 

“ I am writing a few lines to Dulcie, my dear,” he said ; 
“ I thought it best to write at once.” 

“ Oh, I am sorry ! ” said Elisabeth, coming round to the 
side of the table; “I didn’t know you wanted the note 
written immediately. I should have liked to write to Dul- 
cie myself.” 

Mr. Holland eyed her for a moment with a changed ex- 
pression. “ How do you mean,” he said, “that you would 


270 THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 

have liked to write to Dulcie yourself? You do not in- 
tend, I hope, that you disapprove of my corresponding 
with her?” 

Oh ! ” cried Elisabeth, moving back a step. She was 
jealous of Dulcie ; alas ! she knew it too well. But the 
commonness of the feeling attributed to her by her hus- 
band revolted her. “ Such an idea never entered my head 
for a moment — not for a single moment,” she said ; I 
only meant that I should have liked to show that I am 
will — that I am willing Dulcie should come with us.” 

‘‘Well, well,” said Mr. Holland, relentingly. “If I judged 
you unfairly, my dear, you must pardon me ; the tone you 
have adopted toward Dulcie justifies some suspicion of 
unfriendly motives. It is a point you would do well to 
reflect on, Elisabeth. Meanwhile, you had better, perhaps, 
get on with the packing ; we shall not have too mucli time 
to-morrow morning.” 

“ No, I will go,” said Elisabeth. She gathered up her 
books, and was moving to the door, when a sudden thought 
struck her. “ I forgot,” she said ; “ if we leave to-morrow 
morning we shall not see Mr. Brudenel when he calls. 
That will be a great pity; he seemed so anxious to see 
you.” 

Mr. Holland did not immediately answer. “ He is ver^ 
obliging,” he said at last, without looking up from his 
writing, “ but it is not of the slightest consequence, my 
dear. People are like that ; they forget one for years, and 
then think it necessary to express some particular pleasure 
at coming across one again. We needn’t trouble ourselves 
about Brudenel.” 

“ I think he will be disappointed,” said Elisabeth, reluc- 
tantly ; “he didn’t seem to have forgotten you. Shall I 
write to him this evening to say we shall have left ? ” 

“My dear, you will oblige me,” said her husband, with 
some peremptoriness, “ by letting the matter be. Brudenel 
will probably have forgotten all about it by to-morrow, and 
not come at all. If he does, I shall in any case leave word 
with the maid that we have left London sooner than we 
expected. That will be all that is needed. The matter is 
of no importance,” he said again; “you excite yourself 
unduly, my dear, over these trifles.” 

Elisabeth acquiesced, or at least was silent, and left the 
room. She did not feel very excited, but she was sorry ; 
she would have liked to see her acquaintance of the old 
books and the old monuments once more. 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


271 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

DULCIE MAKES HERSELF USEFUL. 

Elisabeth’s black straw hat and gloves lay beside her 
on the shining concrete floor. She had dragged a heavy 
chair, with frayed brocade and a black worm-eaten back, 
on to the wide step in the embrasure of a window, that 
she might rest her arms on the cushioned ledge and gaze 
out. The window was in a long ante-chamber, sparely 
furnished with an old and toneless grand piano, some 
blackened pictures in massive tarnished frames, two set- 
tees covered with more frayed yellow brocade, and a 
couple of black carved chairs. But these meagre fittings, 
combined with a lofty stuccoed and frescoed ceiling, gave 
the place a high air of shabby antiquity that Elisabeth 
would not willinglv h*ave seen exchanged for the finest 
efforts of modern upholstery. Four doors led from this 
apartment respectively to the dining-room, the sitting- 
room, the entry, and a disused bedroom, vast and frescoed 
like the ante-chamber, and where the bed and chairs 
seemed to be mere accidents in space. Elisabeth had come 
in from a solitary w^lk, and had sat down on her way to 
the salon, partly, perhaps, through weariness — perhaps 
partly that through the closed door she could distinguish 
the voice of Dulcie reading to her husband. She had 
taken off her hat then, and resting her arms on the cush- 
ioned window-ledge, was trying, as she tried twenty times 
a-day, to realize that this was Venice. ‘‘Venice, Venice!” 
she kept repeating to herself, as if the beautiful name — 
beautiful even in English — would help her to such realiza- 
tion. The scene she looked upon was Venetian enough ; 
the palazzo formed an angle where a narrow water-lane 
entered the broad highway of the Grand Canal, and Elisa- 
beth from her window looked across a strip of dull green 
shadowed water lying deep below, oh the lofty blackened 
front of an old palace, one of those facades so common in 
Venice, whose weather-stained, peeling walls form so ad- 
mirable a setting for the airy grace of the arched and 
pillared windows that pierce the solid masonry at frequent 
intervals. Iron balconies, set with flower pots, projected 
from these windows ; now and then a head would appear, 
or a woman’s form lean forward over the slender railing. 


272 


THE FAILURE OF ^ ELISABETH. 


The water lay deep below, shadowed and quiet, crossed 
some hundred paces further up by a steep-arched bridge ; 
from time to time a gondolier's cry would be heard, and 
swiftly rounding the angle, with a long swish of the oar, 
a gondola would glide past and vanish out of sight. Be- 
yond, in the May sunshine, lay the shimmer and splendor 
of the Grand Canal, as it widened toward the lagoons, the 
domed whiteness of the Salute rising against the sky. 
Yes, there was no doubt that it was Venice ; but Elisabetli 
was taking Venice very seriously. She had, as everyone 
does not, fallen in lov’-e with it at first sight ; it was not 
altogether what she had imagined it would be, though the 
main features of the place had been familiar beforehand 
to her, as to everyone ; but before she had been there 
four-and-twenty hours she declared to herself that it was 
more beautiful tlian anything she could have imagined. 
But she was disposed, as I say, to take it seriously ; it im- 
pressed her ; it impressed her too much ; she could not 
realize it. She felt as if she were nibbling at the rind of 
the gorgeous fruit ; she wanted to get at its core ; she 
wanted to reach the heart of the beautiful city ; she 
wanted to feel Venice through and through. 

Elisabeth, it will be perceived, was in as great a hurry 
as if she had wished to swallow the fruit of this particular 
tree of knowledge at one gulp, since she had been in Ve- 
nice for three days only ; at the same time it must be ad- 
mitted that three days’ residence in the city of her dreams 
had done less to satisfy her than might have been expected 
of even so brief a period. She would, in fact, have taken 
larger possession of Venice had it not been for those sad 
vexations of life that one would so willingly stow away 
with portmanteau and travelling-bag on arriving at the 
goal of one’s desires, only to pull out when the work-a-day 
world must needs begin again. The journey out had been 
propitious. Mr. Holland had been, for him, wonderfully 
well and genial. His spirits had risen as soon as Dulcie 
Fawcett joined them ; he bore the journey without too 
much fatigue ; he seemed better in health than he had 
been for many months past. It is true that Elisabeth was 
thankful when the journey came to an end, since it 
seemed to her accompanied by a constant grumbling cho- 
rus of under-feed waiters and porters ; she learned to fly 
from her husband’s side, to retreat into the furthest corner 
of railway-carriage or hotel-omnibus, that she might nei- 
ther hear the malcontents nor witness Mr. Holland’s mild 


273 


THE FAILUJ^E OF ELISABETH 

triumph over his natural enemies. These were ignoble 
moments that went far to make the journey hateful to her. 
On the other hand, Miss Fawcett behaved unexceptiona- 
bly ; she never obtruded herself, possibly because, as she 
said, she was not a good traveller ; and to sit quietly in a 
corner with a book, ignoring, as far as possible, the acci- 
dents of travel, seemed to her the only plan to ward off 
fatigue. Still, on occasion, she could make herself useful ; 
and, in short, from whatever cause, proved herself that 
rarest of rare birds, a pleasant travelling companion. And 
when, presently arriving in Venice, Elisabeth saw the 
large fresh rooms prepared for their reception — rooms 
commanding that incomparable view whose strange and 
supreme beauty strikes the beholder as an ever-renewed 
miracle — then a thrill of immense happiness filled her 
heart. It was as though a great curtain that had hung 
across her life had been drawn aside. 

Otto Holland, in offering the use of this apartment to 
his brother, had included the services of an old woman, 
who was engaged to look after and dust the rooms when 
they were empty, and to perform the same functions with 
a moderate amount of cooking, when they were occupied. 
He had omitted, however, to provide a gondola, or the 
gondolier who plays an important part in Venetian house- 
holds ; and though this addition to their party was hinted 
at to Elisabeth through the medium of old Maddalena’s 
niece, a highly decorative young lady from a milliner’s 
shop, who spoke a little English, Mr. Holland would as 
soon have thought of setting up a carriage in London as 
a gondola in Venice ; and Maddalena remained sole mis- 
tress of the establishment. Fortunately she was of match- 
less probity, for Elisabeth knew hardly a dozen words of 
Italian to begin with ; though in a very few days, with 
phrase-book and dictionary, she had learned that selection 
of useful phrases whose easy acquisition so greatly facili- 
tates the stranger’s sojourn in Italy. She learned more, 
for she had a talent for languages, and soon conversed flu- 
ently enough with her old woman. 

Elisabeth then, I say, installed in their new rooms, felt 
a thrill of immense joy. If they could only live there for 
ever ! The apartment was a large and rambling one, wan- 
dering away at the back into certain vast and dusky cham- 
bers, looking out on a central courtyard, on the narrow 
canal, and on an alley that flanked the house on the other 
side. These were seldom occupied, the five or six rooms 

i8 


274 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


to the front being found sufficient for ordinary purposes ; 
they had the dusty, gloomy air, therefore, proper to dis- 
used apartments ; they were the repository for various old 
and odd pieces of furniture ; and they were disposed with 
such picturesque and inconvenient irregularity that Elisa- 
beth found, to her pleasure, in wandering through them, 
it was almost possible to lose her way. That was alto- 
gether her idea of an old Venetian palace. She wandered 
through them a good deal in the first two or three days : 
they helped her, in their limited way, to realize her Ven- 
ice. She had thought on the first day, when, leaning out 
of the sitting-room window in the intervals of unpacking, 
she looked down on the glow and splendor of the Grand 
Canal, that she should never tire of watching a scene at 
once so novel and of a beauty so intimate through its as- 
sociations. But before the second morning was over a 
great impatience, she found, began to possess her. She 
wanted to be out and about ; she wanted to be in a gon- 
dola ; she wanted to be seeing churches and pictures, to 
be gazing at San Marco, to be wondering at the Doge’s 
Palace, to be gliding under the Bridge of Sighs — to be 
performing, in short, all the immemorial and classic rites 
proper to Venice. One would need, perhaps, to be one- 
and-twenty again, to have seen almost nothing of the 
world, to be, like Elisabeth, a creature full of a passion, an 
enthusiasm, an ardent curiosity, half starved even out of 
her own consciousness through years of meagre fare, to 
understand the burning impatience and longing that urged 
her to escape from the house and make herself free of 
Venice. Why did she not go ? This history, it will have 
been long since discovered, moves on no very lofty lines 
of tragedy ; yet to historian and reader alike, not wholly 
resigned to the incessant clatter of teacups, there may well 
be some tedium in the explanation of why she found it so 
difficult to perform the simple act of putting on her bonnet 
and going out for aT^alk. In the first place, Mr. Holland 
had no desire to go out ; he preferred to rest a day or two 
after his journey. He was; indeed, extremely well and 
animated, for him. Elisabeth, who, in her inexperience of 
illness in general — an inexperience unenlightened by the 
deceptive speeches of doctors and the good-natured encour- 
agement of friends — was always looking for the moment of 
a decisive change for the better to begin, was convinced 
that it had come now, wrought as through a miracle at 
once, by the air and sunshine of Venice. Looking at Ven- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 275 

ice, no miracle seemed impossible. Mr. Holland sat in 
placid enjoyment by the window, smoothing down his 
mustache and gazing at the shining scene before him. 
“ This is very pretty ; this is very pleasant !” he said more 
than once. “ I must write and thank Otto. This is very 
pretty indeed.’* Had Elisabeth known — but she did not 
know, neither did he — that these were the words of a dying 
man, drinking in through the golden transparent air and 
sunshine his last impressions of life and of the world, they 
would have held to her apprehension a pathos so profound 
as to change all that came afterward. As it was, she 
believed that her husband was much better, and simply 
rejoiced at the spectacle of his enjoyment, which tended to 
prove that this visit to Venice, that had been the subject 
of so many heart-searchings, promised, so far as he was 
concerned, to turn out the greatest success in the world. 

Elisabeth would have felt no compunction, however — to 
return to the original point — in leaving her husband in 
solitary possession of his enjoyment for an hour or so. He 
had never made a point of their being always together ; 
on the contrary, he had, by degrees, given her the im- 
pression that he preferred to be alone ; that her constant 
presence was an oppression to him, except on those oc- 
casions when some more severe attack of illness confined 
him to bed and Elisabeth took her place as nurse at his 
side. She had the habit, therefore, of going out alone, af- 
fording him such entertainment as lay in her power by a 
recital of her adventures when she returned. But now 
there was Dulcie to be considered. Miss Fawcett also, it 
appeared, was fatigued by the journey ; and a sentiment 
of courtesy made Elisabeth reluctant to leave her guest 
and go out to seek amusement by herself. In fact, after 
she had twice suggested to Dulcie that all Venice lay there 
at their feet awaiting them, her husband interfered. “ My 
dear,” he said, ‘^supposing we stop at home to-day. We 
shall, I dare say, be here for six weeks — more than time 
enough for all the sight-seeing you can desire. We shall 
none of us be the worse for a day or two of rest. For my 
part I could be content to sit here always and look at this 
lovely view — eh, Dulcie ? What do )"ou think ? ” It was 
unreasonable, perhaps, to desire more than that lovely 
view ; nevertheless, Elisabeth presently wandered away to 
explore the dusky apartments, returning from time to time 
to the radiant world on the other side ; until presently, 
the sunset, the twilight, the kindling sparks of the gon- 


276 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


dolas held her an enchanted watcher, and she demanded 
no more. 

A society a trois is proverbially (though not inevitably) 
discouraging to one or another, or perhaps all, who consti- 
tute it ; and Elisabeth, on finding her third day in Venice 
passing like the first two, began, with a sinking heart, to 
see a long vista of such days stretching before her. She 
wondered where Frau Werner was living, whether the 
Sparrows were indeed in Venice, and was Emilia coming? 
She had heard nothing from Madame von Waldorf since 
they left Thornton Briars ; she spent a part of the day in 
writing to her. She spoke to her husband of the Spar- 
rows ; but Mr. Holland had sunk into a state of absolute 
quiescence and content, such as she had seldom seen him 
in before. It was the quiescence of an invalid who finds 
all his amusement and occupation provided for him with- 
out the slightest effort on his own part. The sunshine, 
the warm spring air — the weather was a Venetian May at 
its loveliest — the unceasing t life and animation spread 
out before his eyes, stirred him, so to speak, to tranquillity. 
He was content to be idle, to sit with folded hands, to 
let the world and its cares drop into remoteness. It did 
not occur to Elisabeth to inquire — Mr. Holland himself 
was probably unaware — how much Dulcie contributed to 
this result. That young lady’s presence, so disquieting to 
Elisabeth, was doubtless an appreciable boon to Mr. Hol- 
land. His strained relations with his wife were harassing 
to him as to Elisabeth ; it was unquestionable that, for 
him, at any rate, the wheels of life moved more smoothly 
for Dulcie Fawcett’s presence. Her society was a pleas- 
ure to him — Elisabeth, perhaps, hardly appreciated how 
great a pleasure. He was a discrowned, an abdicated 
monarch ; in his own parish the life and business of the 
place had drifted naturally from him to his energetic cu- 
rate ; even when he was at home it was only a broken 
thread of authority that he could hold ; and in these sad 
circumstances — it was, in truth a profound tragedy to the 
man — he found in Dulcie Fawcett the deference and de- 
votion of a faithful follower ; he found in her, above all, 
the element of adoration that was, in these days, so sadly 
lacking in his wife. Elisabeth, 1 say, hardly appreciated 
all this, and Mr. Holland was at no pains to instruct her. 
He had a very clear insight into the relations existing be- 
tween her and Dulcie ; and it might not be too much to 
say that he found a certain satisfaction in his wife’s jeal- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. , 277 

ousy, which he held to be absolutely unreasonable. It 
would be unjust to say that he acted with an express view to 
arouse it ; certainly he had principles that would have for- 
bidden that ; he simply acted as he considered he had a 
perfect right to act, with kindness and partiality toward a 
young girl he had known from a child. Nothing, he would 
have maintained, could be more innocent and innocuous, 
a mixture of the pastoral and the paternal, than the senti- 
ment he entertained toward Dulcie. If his wife was fool- 
ish and criminal enough to be jealous, that was her fault, 
and it was one not altogether displeasing to him. Elisa- 
beth’s critical attitude toward himself — of which he was 
quite aware, however she might try to conceal it — demand- 
ed something more than passive resistance on his part ; it 
demanded attack in return. Elisabeth was not greatly 
open to attack ; Mr. Holland had not a captious or fault- 
finding temper ; he was tolerant in small matters, except as 
they involved a question of money ; and Elisabeth, as he 
very well knew, was a good wife to him. But there could 
be no question that she was to blame in her temper 
toward Dulcie, and here was an opportunity to his 
hand. 

He, at any rate, then, found nothing but satisfaction in 
Dulcie’s presence as a third in their small society. The 
third day found that young lady still fatigued after her 
journey. Elisabeth would have sympathized more with 
this calamity had Miss Fawcett’s looks supported the 
statement ; but she looked sufficiently blooming as she sat 
hour after hour making little pink and lilac cotton frocks 
for the village children at home. She used her needle 
with consummate skill, and Elizabeth watched with envi- 
ous admiration the rapidity with which these small gar- 
ments formed themselves under her hands. Miss Dulcie 
apparently took no especial interest in Venice for the 
moment. She sat at her sewing in an armchair placed 
near Mr. Holland’s, only rising from time to time to look 
over his shoulder when he commented on the scene before 
him. She had a way, indeed, of responding to all the re- 
marks he made, whether they were addressed to her in 
particular or not, that Elisabeth, her historian might be 
sorry to record (since a heroine should be above minding 
such trifles), found exasperating. Dulcie had also a great 
solicitude for Mr. Holland’s comfort, which took no account 
of the fact that his wife was presumably better acquainted 
with his habits than herself ; and arranged with much 


278 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


elaboration a cushion and a shawl that contributed not a 
little to the discomfort of the object of her care. She 
was, in short, in a very pleased and gracious frame of 
mind. She had determined, on the first hint of Mr. Hol- 
land going to Venice, to accompany him, if possible ; and 
she had accomplished her design wdth very little difficulty. 
Dulcie Fawcett is not our heroine ; her fortunes will not 
greatly occupy us, and it is not my purpose to institute a 
very strict inquisition into her character and motives. It 
may suffice to say of her in general that she expended a 
large part of her very adequate intelligence to devising 
more or less roundabout ways of gaining her own ends. 
In saying that she devised these ways, it is not meant that, 
as a rule, she set herself very deliberately to scheme ; 
probably people rarely do, but one must think of some- 
thing, as the saying is ; and a mind disposed to intrigue 
will intrigue instinctively, involuntarily. That great 
chaotic jumble that passes through the brain during our 
waking hours, involuntarily almost, so far as we are con- 
cerned, as the blood circulates in the veins, and wdiich we 
would willingly consign to oblivion as useless lumber, is 
not only a final result, but a determining cause of charac- 
ter ; it contributes more, probably, to its final action than 
the best-considered meditations of our more conscious 
moments. Miss Fawcett had very few sincere thoughts, 
and it may be doubted whether she always recognized these 
in the great variety of insincere ones that occupied her 
mind. Her most genuine sentiments at this time were, 
perhaps, an affection for the man whose partiality she had 
been instructed to look on as a distinction, and jealousy of 
his wife ; arid her actions tended as naturally to the satis- 
faction of these emotions as floating straws are drawn to 
a central current. Mr. Holland’s habitual attitude toward 
his wife made the business almost monotonously easy. 
There was nt) need to scheme at all ; she had only to ex- 
hibit her devotion to Mr. Holland to make his wife acutely, 
however unreasonably, uncomfortable. 

On the afternoon of the third day, Elisabeth’s patience 
gave way quite abruptly. Her husband had gone to lie 
down for an hour, and Elisabeth, leaving Dulcie to the 
confection of a small pfnk frock, went first to the kitchen 
to speak to old Maddelena, then wandered away again to 
her dusky apartments at the back. There were old cabi- 
nets there ; there were certain old pictures, that in default 
of the glowing galleries of Venice — they seemed to her 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 279 

about as far off as Labrador — might claim her attention 
for a time. If they were more than a trifle blackened by 
age and dirt, there was the greater interest in discovering 
what they were about. Returning presently to the sitting- 
room, she found that Mr. Holland had resumed his seat 
by the window, and that Dulcie, her shining needle laid 
aside for awhile, was reading the newspaper aloud to him. 
Elisabeth took up her own sewing and listened in silence 
through a leading article, then proposed to Miss Fawcett 
to relieve her of the task. 

‘‘I like it,” that young lady protested ; “there is nothing 
I like better than reading aloud. I often read at home in 
the evening.” 

“ You read very pleasantly, my dear,” said Mr. Holland ; 
“ not too fast, and with a very pleasing voice and intona- 
tion. I don’t know how it is, but I follow you with more 
ease than I sometimes do my wife.” 

Elisabeth flushed up. “ I thought,” she said hastily and 
falteringly, “you liked my reading.” Her thoughts flew 
back to a distant day at Schlossberg, when Mr. Holland 
liad praised her voice and her elocution. She had read to 
him — that, at least, she had done — with a happy mind ever 
since. 

“ So I do, my dear, so I do,” he said in reply ; “ but that 
doesn’t mean it is not susceptible of improvement. You 
read too fast, for one thing. You might listen to Dulcie, 
and take a hint from her — if she is not too tired to go on, 
that is. Perhaps, though,” he continued, addressing him- 
self to Miss Fawcett, “ I oughtn’t to keep you in this fine 
afternoon, my dear. You and Elisabeth might like to go 
somewhere together.” 

His voice was kind, without the latent sarcasm and 
coldness with which he often spoke to or of his wife ; and 
Elisabeth’s irritation subsided in a moment. But before 
she could answer, Dulcie interposed. 

“ Oh, I would much rather stay here with you,” she 
said quickly and sweetly. “ That was what I hoped when 
I came to Venice — that you would let me sometimes sit 
with you as I do at Thornton Briars, and do what little I 
can. As you said yesterday, there will be plenty of time 
for us to see Venice ; and it would be so dull for you to sit 
here all alone. But if you would really allow me to read 
to you, Mrs. Holland might perhaps be glad to go out. 
She was saying just now hpw much there is to be seen.” 

The singularly bad taste of this speech was lost on Mr. 


28 o 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


Holland, whose instincts were not fine on such points ; he 
was pleased, indeed, as was natural, by Miss Dulcie’s lik- 
ing for his society. It was not lost on Elisabeth ; she 
would hardly have been woman if it had been. She 
wavered for a moment, then rose with some abruptness. 

Thank you ; I will go out for half an hour,” she said, 
and left the room. 

She went out, but she went no further than the nearest 
bridge, where she stood aimless and uncertain for a few 
minutes, leaning on the parapet and gazing down into the 
dull green waters of a canal. Then an open-air vender of 
the Venetian shell necklaces came up and accosted her ; 
she started, and turned to retrace her steps. She could 
not go on ; she felt too much discouraged ; her loneliness 
oppressed her, and the sad faults and perplexities of her 
life, she went bdck to the old palazzo, and mounted the 
staircase to their apartment again. She had been gone 
scarcely ten minutes. 

So it was — to return to the point from which we started 
at the beginning of this wandering and retrospective 
chapter — that Elisabeth found herself seated in the ante- 
room, with her hat beside her on the floor, vaguely listen- 
ing to Dulcie’s voice, wondering whether she should ever do 
more than nibble at the rind of the gorgeous fruit before 
her. She had been in Venice three days, but it seemed to 
her an eternity. 


CHAPTER XXVHI. 

ELISABETH MAKES AN APPOINTMENT. 

The outer-door bell rang, but Elisabeth did not move. 
They had had no visitors since their arrival in Venice, and 
she had no reason to expect any. But in a moment a 
man’s footstep sounded in the entry, the anteroom-door 
opened, and Gordon Temple came in. He came in looking 
fresh, handsome, alert, dressed in a cool light-gray suit, with 
a flower in his buttonhole ; looking, in short, precisely as, 
if he were my hero — but that enviable post is occupied by 
Elisabeth’s husband — I could wish that he should look. 
As he came forward, however, he felt as much, perhaps 
even more embarrassment than Elisabeth herself, who had 
sprung up with one of her quick, shy movements to greet 
him. It was, probably, that he had bestowed a good many 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


281 


thoughts on her in these last weeks. He had said to him- 
self — and it might or not have been the fact— that she 
interested him more than any woman he had ever met. 
He had thought of her as he had seen her at Thornton 
Briars, of her gentle voice and manner, of the sadness in 
her beautiful eyes, of the impression she had made on him 
of someone caught and imprisoned in the sad and sorry 
surroundings in which he had found her. He pronounced 
his cousin Robert the shabbiest fellow in the world, and 
declared to himself that the woman must be a saint who 
could be loyal to a husband like that ; he had divined — 
little as he had seen of her, it had not been difficult to 
divine — that Elisabetli’s loyalty was a sort of religion to 
her. Elisabeth, as we know, was very far from being a 
saint; but that was not a consideration likely to affect the 
point of view Gordon had taken up. If it had been indi- 
cated to him, he would have replied that by a saint he 
didn’t mean a frigid, bloodless shadow; and that if it was 
easy for anyone to see, after conversing a couple of hours 
with Mrs. Holland, that she was a creature full of re- 
pressed impulse and longing, that did not affect the case 
one way or the other, except to make her appear more 
admirable. This, I say, being the point of view he had 
taken up — our imperfect Elisabeth might have been 
pleased, no doubt, but a trifle surprised, to find herself 
invested with so fine a halo — he felt something of embar- 
rassment in seeing her again ; he felt that he might 
probably appear to her an awkward fellow. Whatever 
embarrassment he may have experienced, however, his 
manner betrayed none. He set down his hat, and drawing 
forward the second chair the ante-room contained, began 
to ask her about her life in Venice. He himself had been 
there nearly a week, he said, but had heard that morning 
only, and quite bv accident, of their arrival ; he had 
imagined them still in London. How did she like Venice ? 
Had she seen much of it yet ? Elisabeth answered, simply 
enough, that her husband had been tired after his journey, 
and she had been out very little; but she hoped to see a 
great deal before they left. 

“A great deal? Why, of course, you must see every- 
thing,” said Gordon; “everything in Venice is worth 
seeing. And then sight-seeing is so delightfully easy here : 
one has only to step into a gondola, and getting to the 
place one wants to visit is as charming as the place itself.” 
Elisabeth was silent for a momenta 


282 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


“ Aren’t gondolas rather expensive ? ” she said then, hes- 
itatingly. 

“Expensive? No, no,” he said, glancing at her and 
smiling a little. “ Otto ought to have seen to that,” he went 
on ; “ he ought to have left you the use of his gondola. 
But perhaps you have taken one by the week ? That’s 
what people do who come to Venice for any time.” 

“ Oh, that is what Maddalena’s niece told us. Madda- 
lena’s niece, she explained, smiling, “ is an important per- 
sonage with us ; she speaks a little English. She told us 
we could have one by the week ; but Robert is so uncer- 
tain about going out, he thought it wouldn’t be worth 
while.” 

“Well, but after all ” began Gordon. He checked 

himself in whatever he was about to say. “In any case,” 
he said, “ it’s of no consequence at all. There is my gon- 
dola quite at your service ; I hope that you, and Robert 
also, will use it whenever you feel disposed ; and if you 
will allow me, it will give me pleasure to show you one or 
two things here.” 

He glanced at her again as he spoke. She was in Venice ; 
the hope on which she had not ventured to dwell had been 
realized ; but the sadness, as he saw, had not passed from 
her eyes. They brightened, however, at his words. 

“ Oh, thank you,” she said ; “that is very kind of you ; 
it will give me a great deal of pleasure, if you can find the 
time ; but you are busy, I know ; you came hereto work.” 

“ Oh, I’m not so busy but that I can take a holiday occa- 
sionally,” he answered, smiling. “ With your permission I 
shall come very soon. May I come to-morrow ? I have an 
engagement, unfortunately, that will take up the earlier 
part of the day; but the days are long now, and I could 
call for you after four o’clock, if that would suit you. That 
would still leave us two or three hours.” 

“Thank you,” said Elisabeth, hesitating. Then the 
splendor of the scheme dawned upon her ; her face was 
illuminated. “ I must ask Robert,” she said ; “ I’m afraid 
I can’t very well decide at once without speaking to him. 
He might like to go out to-morrow afternoon. I want him 
to go out as soon as he is rested.” 

“ It doesn’t in the least signify,” Gordon answered. “ I 
shall call, at any rate. If you can go, so much the better ; 
if not, we must take another day. How is Robert ? Does 
Venice suit him, do you think ?” 

“It suits him very well indeed,” said Elisabeth, with ari- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 




imation. ‘‘He is wonderfully well — better than he has 
been for a very longtime. I think he has really taken a 
turn, and will get better now.” 

“ Well, that’s good news, at any rate,” said Gordon. He 
took up his hat. “Can I see him ?” he inquired, “or is he 
engaged ? ” 

“No, he is not engaged ; he will be very happy, I think, 
to see you. Miss Fawcett was reading the newspaper to 
him, but I’ll tell him you are here.” 

“ Miss Fawcett ? Miss Dulcie, do you mean ? Is she 
with you ? ” 

“Yes,” said Elisabeth, “she is with us.” She let the 
sentence drop at these words in a way Gordon had noticed 
in her before ; it was as if words had all at once become 
inadequate for expression. If so, she was probably uncon- 
scious of it. “Will you come into the next room?” she 
said, rising ; “ we shall find Robert there.” 

“No; on second thoughts, don’t disturb him, for I 
could only stay a minute,” said Gordon rising also. “ I’ll 
come in another day. To-morrow, in fact,” he added, hold- 
ing out his hand. 

“Yes, thank you,” answered Elisabeth, a little absently. 
“ I wanted to know,” she said, detaining him, “ whether 
your father is really coming to Venice. Emilia wrote that 
he perhaps would.” 

“ No, no,” he answered, his face clouding over a little, 
“ that was only a fancy of his. He is too old, too infirm ; 
the journey would be too much for him.” 

“ You found him — was he less well ? ” said Elisabeth. 

“Well, a little changed, a little broken. I hope to run 
up to Schlossberg again in two or three weeks.” There 
was a minute's silence. “ That being the case, Emilia will 
not come, either,” he said ; “you know how good she is, 
how devoted to my father. But the Baroness hopes to 
come next month ; she has set her heart on it. She wants 
to see you.” 

“ Oh, I want to see her ! ” cried Elisabeth, from the bot- 
tom of her heart ; and with these words they parted. 

Elisabeth went on into the sitting-room. Mr. Holland 
was alone ; Dulcie had finished reading, apparently ; her 
place, at any rate, was vacant, and Mr. Holland leaning back 
in his chair, was slowly scanning the columns of the news- 
paper he had picked up. Elisabeth came in and sat down 
quietly. She had to tell her husband that Gordon Temple 
had called ; and she would have much preferred not to 


284 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


have to tell him. His dislike to his relations was a continual 
stumbling-block to her ; she could not imagine why he dis- 
liked them ! She knew, indeed, or fancied, that he resent- 
ed their superior wealth as an injustice to himself ; but 
that was too pitiful a reason (so it seemed to Elisabeth) to 
be at the root of his aversion. It was not, at any rate, one 
that she cared consciously to accept. For the moment, 
however, it was not the general question, but the partic- 
ular fact that she had to tell him, that occupied her mind. 
But she would be able in telling him of Gordon Temple’s 
visit to inform him also that Emilia was not coming to 
Venice ; possibly the one piece of news might counteract 
the effect of the other. She sat silent until Mr. Holland, 
laying his newspaper across his knee, addressed her. 

‘‘Well, my dear,” he said, “ did you go out ? ” 

“Yes, I went out,” said Elisabeth; “but I didn’t go 
far.” She paused a moment. “ I wish you could go out 
also,” she said then, diffidently. “Venice must be very 
beautiful ; you would enjoy it, I think.” 

“Well, well, we shall see,” said Mr. Holland, “in a day 
or two perhaps. There is no hurry. I am very well con- 
tent here.” 

“ If you didn’t care to walk ” Elisabeth began. 

“Your cousin Gordon has just been here,” she added, with 
no apparent relevance. 

Mr. Holland smoothed out the paper on his knee and 
turned it before answering. “ Well,” he said then, “ why 
did he not come in ?” 

“He did,” said Elisabeth. “I was sitting in the ante- 
room, and he spoke to me there. Dulcie was reading to 
you, and he said he wouldn’t disturb you, as he could stay 
for a minute only. He will come another day.” 

Elisabeth profered this explanation somewhat hurried- 
ly, under a sense of the increasing coldness of her hus- 
band’s eye. “ He might have come in if he was here,” was 
all he answered, however. 

“ He said — he wished me to tell you,” Elisabeth contin- 
ued, “ that his gondola is quite at your service, whenever 
you care to use it. He meant it, I am sure.” 

“ He is very obliging,” said Mr. Holland ; “but I have 
no especial desire to go in a gondola at present. So far as 
I could judge in the distance we traversed in coming here 
from the railway-station, the motion is singularly unpleas- 
ant.” 

“ Oh, I am sorry,” said Elisabeth. She did not know 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


285 


what to say. She had counted a good deal beforehand on 
the benefit her husband might derive from the enjoyment 
of air and sunshine witliout incurring any fatigue. But it 
was useless, she knew, to urge the point. 

‘‘But that," continued Mr. Holland, unfolding and spread- 
ing out the newspaper, “ need not prevent you, my dear, 
from availing yourself of Gordon’s offer as often as you 
please. I don’t pretend to give you a gondola for your 
own use ; but if there is one at your service, don’t hesitate 
to use it.’’ 

“ No ! ’’ cried Elisabeth, “ that is not what I meant at all.’’ 
Her husband’s tone was extremely wounding. It was the 
first time since they had been in Venice, since they had 
left London even, that he had spoken to her in that 
strain. 

“ I am conscious,’’ Mr. Holland went on in his deliberate 
tones, continuing to turn the paper, “that you consider it 
very dull, in a place like this, to be shut up with an invalid. 
You are naturally anxious to see Venice ; go, my dear, and 
see it. I do not, as you are aware, object to being left 
alone ; in fact, I frequently prefer it. And in any case 
Dulcie, who is not in strong health either, will give me 
as much of her society as I may desire. By no means let 
me feel that I am a check upon your amusements. 

The horrible injustice of these words stung Elisabeth 
to the heart. She was dimly conscious, indeed, that her 
husband, being for some reason put out, as the saying is, 
was simply giving utterance to his irritation. But the 
consciousness hardly consoled lier. 

“Why — why ’’ -she began, passionately; but was 

checked, as she had been often checked before, by the sad 
aspect of his worn and suffering face. It changed her 
mood. “You know,’’ she said, leaning forward and plac- 
ing her hand upon his knee, a note of passion still trem- 
bling in her voice, “that I care for nothing — nothing in 
the whole world, so much as to be with you. I do want 
to see Venice ; but all that would be nothing to me if you 
would let me stay with you. But you don’t — ’’ she choked 
back a sob— “you don’t always care to have me, or to let 
me help you. If — if ’’ 

She broke off as she was about to speak Dulcie’s name. 
Since that brief scene in London, speech about Dulcie 
had become almost impossible to her. She dreaded to see 
her husband’s eyes turned coldly on her, to find herself 
accredited with some base commonness of thought. 


286 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


“ If what ?” he said now, his eyes still fixed on the pa- 
per. But they were interrupted, as the door opened ; for, 
followed by Dulcie herself, no less a personage than Mr. 
Sparrow entered the room. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

ELISABETH MAKES A SECOND APPOINTMENT. 

Elisabeth sprang up, in the hope that Mrs. Sparrow 
and Mary miglit be following ; but the door closed behind 
Dulcie ; Mr. Sparrow was alone. Elisabeth, who had 
never liked the English chaplain, yet felt a thrill of wel- 
come now; he had belonged to Schlossberg! He came 
in looking exactly as he used to look ; three years had not 
changed his hard-featured, dogmatic face in the least : 
there was even a pamphlet sticking out of his coat-pocket, 
ready to be perused and scored at the first inopportune 
moment. He walked briskly up to Mr. Holland, who had 
risen and was standing with a flush of pleasure on his pale 
face. Elisabeth had always wondered at her husband’s 
friendship with a man so anti-pathetic to herself as Mr. 
Sparrow ; and after three years’ experience of their widely 
differing tastes, she still wondered a little. The friend- 
ship, in fact, was as easy or as difficult to explain as most 
other friendships, since no stranger vagaries exist than 
those that characterize the attraction of one human being 
for another. From whatever reason, the liking between 
the two men was genuine ; Mr. Holland, it is true, with 
the languid shrinking of an invalid from exertion, had de- 
layed to seek Mr. Sparrow out ; but he was not the less 
content to see him now. Mr. Sparrow, who was not emo- 
tional, got through his greeting with great promptness. 

‘‘Well, Holland, how are you ? Not much to boast of, 
by your looks. I’m afraid. Your wife, I suppose,” turning 
to Dulcie. 

“No, no; this is our friend, Miss Fawcett, who is kindly 
enlivening our solitude,” said Mr. Holland; “ my curate, 
as I call her at home ; eh, Dulcie ? This is my wife. Spar- 
row ; you’ve not forgotten her, I dare say.” 

“No, no, of course not,” said Mr. Sparrow, holding out 
an absent hand to Elisabeth. He looked past her insignifi- 
cant presence, out of the window. “Well, Holland, you’re 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


287 


in capital quarters here,” he said. ‘‘I only wish I had 
your luck. I suppose there is no better situation in Ven- 
ice. We are at Frau Werner’s, as you know, perhaps, but 
she has made very bad choice of a house ; that’s my opin- 
ion, at least.” 

Oh, where is she ? ” said Elisabeth. “ I should so 
much like to see her again, and Mrs. Sparrow and 
Mary.” 

Mr. Sparrow looked past her again with the expression 
she remembered, as if surprised that so insignificant a per- 
son should have found a place in the world ; or that, hav- 
ing found it, she should feel justified in calling attention 
to the fact. 

‘‘ It’s higher up the canal, on the other side,” he said, 
briefly. ‘‘ There’s Pension Werner in gold letters all across 
the front ; no one with eyes could miss it. Well, as I was 
saying,” he continued, seating himself in an armchair and 
setting down his hat, “ Frau Werner has made a very bad 
choice of a house. A few of the front rooms are well 
enough, but there’s no getting a front room. As I repre- 
sented to her only this morning, old acquaintances like 
myself and my wife should have some consideration shown 
them ; but she only replied that if we could live as cheaply 
and get our choice of rooms elsewhere, we were free to 
go. There was something in that, one was obliged to 
own.” 

Yes, yes, there was a good deal in that,” said Mr. Hol- 
land, assenting. 

Still, it was exceedingly affronting ; but the truth is, 
Frau Werner has been spoiled by the Baroness — alto- 
gether spoiled.” He looked round the room. ‘‘ Now you, 
I suppose, have all this for nothing ; but you always were 
in luck. And how are you ? I can’t say much for your 
looks, you know ; they haven’t changed for the better in 
these years.” 

“Well, perhaps I haven’t changed for the better,” 
said Mr. Holland, smiling a little, “that may account 
for it.” 

“ Oh, but you are better since we came here,” said Elis- 
abeth, leaning forward. “ I am sure you are much better. 
We have never been in any place before that agreed with 
3^ou so well.” 

“ Well, well,” said Mr. Holland, “ we needn’t discuss the 
matter, my dear. It all lies in God’s hands; He knows 
what is best for each of us, His will be done.” 


288 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


He spoke quite simply, without any touch of unction or 
false sentiment — the simple expression of his deepest faith. 
Elisabeth knew it, and her eyes shone and filled with sud* 
den tears. That was hovv'’ she liked to hear her husband 
speak ; in such moments as these she nearly found again 
her old outworn belief in an infallible spiritual guide. 
To Mr. Sparrow, however, it was merely the conven- 
tional utterance of a brother clergyman. 

^‘Very right, very right,” he said ; “still, we mustn’t neg- 
lect human precautions. Don’t stay out too late of an 
afternoon ; the air after sunset is not safe here, to rny 
mind. In fact, I don’t like Venice ; I never could see any- 
thing to like in it. We leave it. I’m glad to say, the first 
week in July, and go up to the Engadine ; I have a sum- 
mer chaplaincy there. You’d better come, too, Holland ; 
the fine air would do you good.” 

“Thank you ; but the air would be too fine for me, I be- 
lieve,” said Mr. Holland. “ And when I leave this, I hope 
to return home.” 

“Ah well, that’s the worst thing you could do,” said his 
friend ; “ at home you’re in your own parish and overwork 
yourself, to a certainty. Doesn’t he overwork himself ? ” 
he said, turning suddenly to Dulcie. 

The young lady addressed glanced at Mr. Holland, and 
looked down. “ I’m afraid, indeed, that he does,” she an- 
swered, twirling her fan. 

“Just what I thought,” said Mr. Sparrow. He leaned 
back in his chair, apparently at a loss what to say next. 
Through mere force of habit he took out his pamphlet and 
scored a passage or two. In a moment, however, he recol- 
lected himself and put it back into his pocket. “We are 
not at all comfortable at Frau Werner’s,” he said, resum- 
ing the subject. “For one thing, the society there is not 
what it used to be — not at all. Both Mrs. Sparrow and 
myself find a good deal to complain of. Generally I leave 
these matters to my wife ; ladies have fancies in such 
things ; they like this person and they dislike that ; I let my 
wife talk. But a very objectionable woman has turned up 
again — a most objectionable person. I don’t know if you 
remember her, Holland — a Mrs. Cleaver?” 

“I have no recollection,” said Mr. Holland. 

“Your wife has, perhaps. A most objectionable woman. 
She was at Schlossberg three years ago, and made herself 
most offensive. I spoke to Frau Werner about her only 
yesterday. ‘ It will come to this,’ I said, ‘ that she must 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 289 

go, or we must ; and if we go, we don’t return.’ But Frau 
Werner has been quite spoilt by the Baroness. ‘What 
would you have?’ she said. ‘Mrs. Cleaver takes my best 
rooms, and pays me my price. How would you have me 
tell her to go?’ There’s something in that, one has to 
own. But Frau Werner ought to be more particular. I 
told her so, and she shrugged her shoulders. She has 
been altogether spoilt.” 

“Oh, well,” said Mr. Holland, tolerantly, “she has to 
look after her own interests, of course. I never had any 
fault to find with Frau Werner. I disliked Schlossberg. I 
have no desire ever to go there again ; but I always found 
the pension agreeable enough — a pleasant, sociable sort of 
place. There were some very friendly people there, I re- 
member, and some pretty girls. Yes ; I enjoyed my 
stay there very well. Of course, in a pension the society 
is always changing; but I don’t dislike the life for awhile. 
Unfortunately, my wife does.” 

Elisabeth colored painfully. 

“ I liked it at Schlossberg,” she said, in rather a choked 
voice. These months, to which her husband had been 
alluding, had been to her the most vital in her life ; for 
him also, it might have been supposed, they would hold 
memories of more intimate value than of friendly people 
and pretty girls. “I don’t like an English boarding- 
house,” she went on, in clearer tones ; “at least, I don’t 
like the one at Westport. It is the only one of which I 
have any experience.” 

“You leave your curate in charge, I suppose, Holland ?” 
said Mr. Sparrow, abruptly changing the subject. “ A 
satisfactory man, I hope ; sound views, not given to vagaries 
of his own ? It’s an awkward thing to leave a man in con- 
trol who has no immediate responsibility. I’ve known a 
parish turned topsy-turvy under those circumstances : the 
vicar absent, like yourself, and a young Oxford fellow, 
who thought he’d got a fine field to try all his theories in. 
I hope you have no trouble of that kind ?” 

“Oh, Richards goes on steadily enough,” said Mr. Hol- 
land. “ He’s no chance,” he added with a short laugh, “ to 
try any vagaries of his own. The churchwardens would 
look after that.” 

“Well, so much the better under the . circumstances. 
Not a married man, I hope ? — No ? — So much the better, 
too. In any case, it must be rather a pull upon you, eh ? 
One has to behave pretty handsomely when a man does 


290 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


all your work for you ; and when there’s a wife and family 
one can’t leave them altogether out of account.” 

‘‘ Oh, Richards and 1 settled all that long ago,” said the 
Vicar of Thornton Briars, evasively ; “we have no difficul- 
ties on that score.” 

“ So much the better. I forgot the exact value of your 
living. It’s a good one, I know ; but I suppose the agri- 
cultural depression touches you a little, like everyone else. 
Well, I’m clear of all that, at any rate ; the farmers can’t 
take it out of He sat drumming his knee with oiie 

hand for a moment. “We’re getting up a subscription,” 
he said then, “ and I look to you to help us. We want to 
build an English church at Schlossberg.” 

“What’s the point of that?” said Mr. Holland; “I 
thought you always had the use of the German church on 
Sundays.” 

“ So we have ; and a most ridiculous and inconvenient 
arrangement it is. It’s a standing scandal that, in a place 
like Schlossberg, the English chaplain shouldn’t have a 
church of his own. We are getting up a subscription, and 
hope to begin building in August ; and I look to you, Hol- 
land, as a Schlossberg man, to help us.” 

“la Schlossberg man ! ” said Mr. Holland. “I have no 
desire ever to see the place again.” 

“Well your sister lives there ; doesn’t she ? — and your 
uncle ? Your sister, by the by, has behaved very hand- 
somely, all things considered ; she gave me ten pounds 
without a word.” 

“ My sister does what she likes with her money,” said 
Mr. Holland, indifferently. “ She has plenty to throw 
away, and is no rule for me ; but I was not aware she had 
the habit of attending the English Church.” 

“ Neither has she. She goes to the German Lutheran, 
which makes her conduct all the handsomer. So I look 
to you to give us a helping hand also. No need to trou- 
ble about it to-day,” as Mr. Holland made no immediate 
movement of acquiescence ; “ there will be an opportunity 
later on. We are going to have a little meeting of people 
staying in the pension, and their friends : a young lady is 
going to recite, I believe, or something of the kind ; my 
wife attends to that part of it. I shall give a little address, 
and there will be a collection. We shall probably not get 
much ; it’s extraordinary how backward English people 
are in drawing their purse-strings when they are abroad ; 
no stimulus^ I suppose, of public opinion ; but there will 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


291 


be no expenses, and every little helps. Mrs. Sparrow 
thought,’’ he said, turning round on Elisabeth, ‘‘you might 
be of some assistance to her in the arrangements.” 

“That would give me great pleasure,” said Elisabeth, 
smiling. “ I would do anything for Mrs. Sparrow, please 
tell her.” 

“And you,” said the clergyman, turning in his abrupt 
way to Dulcie ; “ we should be glad of your assistance 
also.” 

“ I shall be delighted, of course,” said Dulcie, with her 
usual sweetness ; “ you must let me know how I can be of 
help to you. Do tell me about the church that you pro- 
pose to build, Mr. Sparrow ; it interests me very much. 
It will your church, of course, and a large one, I sup- 
pose ; in a place like Schlossberg you must certainly have 
a large congregation ? ” 

Mr. Sparrow looked at her askance, softened for a mo- 
ment, then hardening again. He had too deep-rooted a 
disrespect for women, too low an opinion of his fellow- 
creatures in general, to be at once taken in by any young 
woman’s airs and graces, as he would have termed them. 

“Do you know Schlossberg well?” he said to Dulcie. 

“Oh, no ! ” she said, opening her eyes. “ I have never 
been there yet ; I only hope to go.” 

“ Then I can’t imagine,” he said, “ why you should take 
any special interest in the cluirch. Anyhow, you can hear 
all about it, if you please, in my address.” He took up 
his hat, and rose to go : “ The meeting is on Friday week,” 
he said to Elisabeth. “ Mrs. Sparrow will be glad to see 
you.” 

“Oh, I shall see her, I hope to see her before that,” 
said Elisabeth, wistfully. “ Give her my love, please — and 
to Mary. How is Mary ? ” 

“ Mary is very well, I believe — I have not heard that 
she has any ailment,” said Mary’s father. “ She has grown 
stouter, that’s all.” He turned again to his friend : “ Well, 
Holland, take care of yourself,” he said ; “ don’t over- 
work. You’re not working now, eh ? — not preaching, or 
anything of that kind ?” 

“Preaching!” said Mr. Holland. “I have never 
preached. Sparrow, since that Sunday you were ill at 
Schlossberg, more than three years ago.” 

“Not — since ’’said Mr. Sparrow. He gazed at his 

friend for a moment ; then grasped his thin white hand in 
his own vigorous red one, half bowed to the two girls, and 


292 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


left the room. Five minutes later, Elisabeth, looking from 
the window, saw him seated in a gondola, reading and 
marking his pamphlet as he glided through one of the 
most enchanting scenes the world can show. 

There was a brief silence after he left the room. Dulcie, 
who had taken up her work, kept her eyes fixed on it. 
Her reflections were of the simplest description ; she 
thought Mr. Holland’s friend the rudest and most odious 
man she had ever come across. She did not, however, 
give utterance to this sentiment. Elisabeth, on her side, 
knew Mr. Sparrow too well for surprises ; he could only 
have surprised her, indeed, by any special display of civil- 
ity ; his behaviour did not call for even a mental comment 
on her part. Mr. Holland was the first to speak. 

My dear,” he said, with more irritation of manner than 
he often showed — his deliberate temper, at once tolerant 
and dogmatic, rarely hurried him into open irritation— 
“you would have obliged me by not pledging yourself so 
heedlessly in the matter of this meeting that Sparrow was 
speaking about.” 

“ Oh, I am sorry ! ” said Elisabeth, starting a little. “ Do 
you object to my going ? I only thought of assisting Mrs. 
Sparrow. I dare say I needn’t go.” 

“ I object to the whole thing,” he said, with the same 
irritation. “ I thought Sparrow had more judgment. 
There is no necessity — none whatever — that I can see, for 
building an English church at Schlossberg. At any rate, 

I chose to have nothing to do with it. There are claims 
enough upon one at home without subscriptions being 
forced upon one abroad. I thought Sparrow had more 
judgment. ” 

Elisabeth was silent for a minute. She perceived, now, 
the cause of her husband’s irritation — perceived it, with a 
sinking of the heart familiar to her. Dulcie, meanwhile, 
having already committed herself to an expression of lively 
interest in the new Schlossberg church, slipped quietly 
from the room ; the amiable habit of agreeing with every- 
one in turn being inconveniently apt to lead one to some 
awkward and impossible corner where further agreement 
becomes impracticable. 

“ I don’t think I need go,” said Elisabeth, after a pause. 

I can make an excuse to Mrs. Sparrow ; she is very kind 
to me always.” 

“That,” said Mr. Holland, speaking with less irritation 
and with more of his usual deliberate gravity, “ would be 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


293 


a reason to keep the engagement, not to break it. Cer- 
tainly you must go, since you have said you will. But 
don’t let either Sparrow or his wife imagine they are going 
to build their church with my money. Give them your 
time, if you please, but make them understand I’m not 
going to subscribe. In fact, if you give your time, that is 
sufficient. They have no right to expect any more.” 

He took up his newspaper and settled himself to read 
again. Happily for Elisabeth, she disliked discussion ; 
the last word had hardly any charm for her. But at the 
close of this day, on which she had arisen feeling that life 
in Venice might mean, after all, only a rather hopeless 
monotony, she found herself with two engagements on her 
hands, neither of which she could be certain had her 
husband’s approval. Of that with Gordon Temple, indeed, 
she had not found occasion to speak ; on the whole, she 
had decided to give it up without speaking of it at all. 
Her husband’s words that afternoon had been too wound- 
ing ; she would rather, she thought, leave every stone in 
Venice unvisited, than give him cause to continue in that 
tone. 

When Gordon arrived, therefore, the following after- 
noon, he was shown into an empty sitting-room, and left 
waiting there for what seemed to him an interminable 
time. He had sent in his name to Mrs. Holland; but it 
must have been nearly half an hour before Elisabeth 
appeared in her out-door dress, pulling on her gloves. 
They were shabby little three-button gloves ; Elisabeth 
was not without high aspirations, as we know, but there 
were moments when it seemed to her that one would be 
not far removed from the ultimate summit of earthly bliss 
through the possession of a dozen pair of new gloves 
buttoning half-way up the arm. 

“ I am so sorry — I have kept you waiting,” she said, in 
her shy embarrassed fashion. 

‘‘Not at all; I am glad you can go,” said Gordon, 
glancing at her. He had the suspicion — he had, in fact, 
always the suspicion now — that something unpleasant had 
passed between her and her husband. 

“ Yes, I can go,” said Elisabeth, with extreme awkward- 
ness ; and without further speech, led the way to the door. 
This half-hour, in fact, during which Gordon had been 
exercising his patience in the empty salottino, had 
been one of the most intimate discomfort to Elisabeth. 
Having decided not to accept Gordon’s invitation, she had 


294 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


said nothing about it to her husband. It was useless — it 
was useless, that was what she said to herself, to bring up 
subjects that might be simply matters of contention. She 
wrote, therefore, a few lines to Gordon, intending, should 
he call or send to the door — she had neglected to inform 
herself of his address — to let him have tlie note by Mad- 
delena. Her Italian was still too imperfect for any clear 
explanation of the matter beforehand. What she had not 
calculated upon (though, in truth, nothing could be more 
natural) was that his visit should be announced and his 
card brought in whilst she was sitting with her husband. 
They were in their own room, and she was engaged in 
copying a long letter for him. Dulcie was out ; this re- 
markable event, the first of its kind in that young lady's 
career in Venice, having been brought about by the fact 
that a schoolfellow of hers, lately married, and with whom 
she was in correspondence, had found her out and invited 
her to join a party to the Lido. Elisabeth, left alone with 
her husband, set herself to write with the pleasure she 
always felt when he was willing to entrust her with any- 
thing to do for him. She asked little better of their com- 
mon life now than an hour like this, when she had him to 
herself, and could feel she was essential to his comfort. 
She was simply disconcerted when Maddelena, bringing in 
Gordon Temple’s card, explained by various gestures that 
the gentleman was waiting in the salottino. Mr. Holland’s 
attention was aroused ; he took the card and examined it. 

^‘Gordon, I see, has called again,” he said. ‘‘Is it by 
your request, my dear, that he makes his visits of such 
frequency ? ” 

“ No ; oh no ! I must explain,” said Elisabeth, flusliing. 
“ He asked me yesterday if I would go out with him this 
afternoon ; I told you that he said his gondola was at our 
disposal. He said he would call to know if I would 

go ” She broke down in miserable embarrassment ; 

she felt a criminal without knowing why. Mr. Holland 
surveyed her with gravity. 

“If Gordon is here, you had better not keep him wait- 
ing,” he said. “There is nothing that need detain you.” 

“ But I don’t want to go,” said Elisabeth ; “ I had writ- 
ten him a note to say so. I meant to send it down when 
he called.” She passed the note across the table, but her 
husband took no notice of it. 

“ I perceive,” he said, “ that you have made some en- 
gagement, and I should wish you to keep it. You treat 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 295 

engagements too lightly, Elisabeth ; you will oblige me by 
keeping this one/' 

There was no engagement,” cried Elisabeth, none 
whatever. I shouldn’t, of course, have made one without 
first consulting you. It was only because I had decided 
not to go that I said nothing about it.” 

She took up the pen she had laid down, as if to recom- 
• mence writing. Mr. Holland sat silent for a moment, 
smoothing down his mustache. 

“Another time,” he said, “it will be better for you to 
refer your decision at once to me. I shall then know bet- 
ter what I am about. There is no harm done, however ; I 
am very willing — I request, in fact, that you should go. 
That letter is of no immediate importance ; in any case, 
Dulcie can finish it for me when she comes in.” 

Elisabeth’s cheeks flamed. “ If you wish it, I will go,” 
she said ; “but I will finish the letter first.” She began 
writing with an impetuosity that scattered the ink over 
the page. She tore it in half, took another sheet, and 
began again. She had the consciousness that her hus- 
band’s eyes were upon her ; she had the consciousness that 
she was behaving like a schoolgirl ; but she f^t as if 
neither heaven nor earth should move her to leave the 
completion of her task to Dulcie. Mr. Holland, having 
contemplated her for a moment in silence, dropped his eyes 
without speaking ; and this silence, that set her in the 
wrong, without giving her the chance of self-justification, 
was intolerable to Elisabeth. 

“ It would be absurd,” she said, looking up as she turned 
the last page, “ that the letter should be in two handwrit- 
ings. The least I can do is to finish it.” 

Her words, so far as her husband was concerned, might 
have been left unspoken ; he made no response whatever. 
Elisabeth finished her copy, passed it across the table for 
his signature, and left the room to put on her hat. In an- 
other moment she was seized by compunction ; her own 
conduct seemed hateful to her. Elisabeth, like most of 
us, had a fine ideal of herself, which (as in some of us) 
differed so widely from the reality, that she was perpetu- 
ally falling from one remorse to another. She put on her 
hat quickly, and went back to the room where she had 
left her husband. He was moving about in his feeble way, 
looking for some book or paper he wanted to take with 
him into the sitting-room. Elisabeth watched a moment 
in silence. 


296 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


Can I help you ?” she said then, timidly. 

He made no answer, but continued his search. She 
went up to him and laid her fingers gently on his arm. 

I am sorry,” she said ; “ I didn’t mean to vex you.” 

He moved his arm from her touch, but did not immedi- 
ately respond. My dear,” he said at last, “ does it never 
occur to you that I am getting a little tired of these 
scenes ? ” 

Elisabeth shrank back as if she had been struck ; she 
said nothing, but left the room. Outside the sitting-room 
door she paused, pressing back some tears, pulling her 
little black net veil down over her eyes. She could not 
look happy, but she looked sufficiently composed as she 
greeted her visitor. Something like despair was at her 
heart and checked her utterance ; but she gave no other 
sign. 

That was how it was that Gordon was kept waiting 
nearly half an hour in the empty sitting-room. Elisabeth 
led the way down the great staircase to the door opening 
on to the side canal, where the gondola, with a striped 
awning, Jay awaiting them at the water-steps. The tide 
was rising, and one or two of the steps were already cov- 
ered. Gordon sprang into the boat, and held out his hand 
to help Elisabeth across the narrow plank that bridged 
the watery space. She thanked him as she took her place 
at his side with a dim and forlorn smile, the best that she 
could muster at the moment. He felt certain now that 
something unpleasant had passed between herself and her 
husband ; her expression was quite different from what it 
had been yesterday, though it had not struck him as being 
especially cheerful then. He was afraid their expedition 
had been spoilt beforehand by that brute of a parson, as 
he mentally designated his cousin. But he arranged a 
cushion for Elisabeth, and asked her where they should go. 

‘‘What would you like to see first, Mrs. Holland ?” he 
said. “ Tell me what you would like.” 

“Oh, you know best,” said Elisabeth, not very cheer- 
fully. “ I mean, you know the different places — where it 
is best to go first. Unless — ” she went on, trying to rally 
her spirits, “ I think, if you don’t mind, I would rather not 
go to any sights to-day. What I want most of all is to 
see Venice.” 

“Ah, you’re right there,” he said ; “Venice is what is 
best worth seeing at Venice. Besides, it is rather late in 
the day for sight-seeing. We will make a round.” 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 297 

He leaned back and gave some order to the gondolier. 
The boat swung round, and with the slow splash of the 
oar, emerged on to the Grand Canal. Elisabeth sat 
almost^ silent, struggling only to respond with some 
decent* grace to the remarks her companion made from 
time to time. She could have cried to think that this 
moment, which should have been an almost ideal moment, 
the moment of first seeing Venice, should have been 
so spoilt and disfigured. Like most people of an imag- 
inative turn, Elisabeth attached an immense value to 
impressions ; to miss a delightful hour in life — she had 
known so few as yet — was to her what losing a bag of 
sovereigns might be to another. Gradually, however, the 
enchantment of the scene around her asserted itself with 
an importance that, for the moment, effaced every other 
consideration. She forgot the unheroic miseries of her 
life, its dreary shortcomings ; she only remembered she 
was in Venice. Her companion saw her change of mood 
in the flush on her cheek, the rallying light in her eye, as 
she turned now and again to him for information or sym- 
pathy. Presently she forgot him also, as the gondola, 
leaving the Grand Canal, swayed slowly round into those 
narrower waterways that, to the lover of Venice, are 
dearer, even, than the great spectacle where the beautiful 
city looks in splendor across the lagoons to the Adriatic. 
She said nothing whatever; and Gordon, noting her 
absorption in the entertainment he had provided for her, 
felt that he had gained his end. He had wanted to give 
her an hour’s respite from the life he partly knew, partly 
guessed at ; and he had succeeded. Presently, as they 
passed from the chill and narrow of the Bridge of Sighs 
to the luminous watery breadths, the golden light, to that 
famous spectacular effect which, true to his duty as cice- 
rone, Gordon had kept to the last, Elisabeth turned her 
eyes on him again. 

‘‘ I — I never imagined, I never could have imagined,” 
she said, ‘‘anything so beautiful as Venice.” 

They were nearing the Casa Holland now, and already 
— it seemed so to Gordon — a faint cloud of weariness, of 
sadness, began to settle down upon her face. She turned 
to him as the boat stopped at the water-door. 

“ I hope it is not very late,” she said anxiously ; “ we 
have not been out a great while, have we ? ” 

“No, no, it is not at all late,” he answered ; “we have 
been out little more than an hour. I won’t come up and 


298 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


see Robert now, though ; that must be for another day. 
And another day I hope you will allow me the pleasure 
of showing you something more.” 

“ Thank you,” she said ; I should like it ; I never 
enjoyed anything so much as this afternoon. But I can- 
not be sure about going ; Robert might want me.” 

“ Of course, he must want you a great deal,” said Gor- 
don, rather absently. He stood looking down for a 
moment at the faint wash of the green water against the 
doorstep. am about to write to my father,” he said 
then, “ I hope I may tell him that you like Venice. He 
will be sure to want to know.” 

“If you do, you must also tell him, please, how much of 
the pleasure I owe to you,” she said, with a shy and 
charming smile. The next moment she disappeared with- 
in the shadows of the vast and dusky entry. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

ELISABETH SEES VENICE. 

When Elisabeth at last succeeded in paying Mrs. Spar- 
row a visit, she found her hardly changed in the least by 
three years’ additional wear and tear ; though the constant 
problem of that good lady’s existence, the cutting of the 
raiment of life out of insufficient material, had not grown 
less acute since their last meeting. She received Elisabeth 
with open arms, tempered, as it were, by criticism. 

“ Well, my dear Elisabeth,” she said, embracing her, and 
then contemplating her at arm’s length ; “ I am glad to 
see you ; it gives me much pleasure, my dear, a great deal 
of pleasure, I assure you.” 

“ I am glad to see you, too,” said Elisabeth, putting her 
hand again into that of the friendly woman. The inter- 
view took place in the dining-room of Frau Werner’s pen- 
sion, a somewhat barely-furnished apartment, with a high 
arched and curtained doorway leading into an adjoining 
room. A murmur of voices came from behind the curtain, 
but it was closely drawn, and Elisabeth had not on this 
occasion been invited to pass it. She had been left alone 
for awhile to the contemplation of a long narrow dining- 
table, laid for about a dozen people, with heavy knives and 
forks and plates, wdth substantial linen and solid tumblers, 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 299 

and a dismal little dessert. The whole reminded her 
strangely of Schlossberg ; it was like a homely German 
picture hung on a Venetian wall. For though the windows 
did not command the Grand Canal, they looked out on a 
narrow waterway, separated from the house by a small 
and sunny garden, with a pergola and some acacias, and 
rose-trees flowering against an old red brick wall. A mass 
of green overtopped the wall ; one could fancy it hanging 
low above the water on the other side. Beyond the wall 
could be seen the canal, with a gondola lying black and 
empty against some steps, and a barge laden with fresh- 
cut grass that went sliding lazily by, stirring into quiver- 
ing pools of light and color the water that washed against 
more red-brick walls with dilapidated and falling stucco, 
with the cool shadow of an arched doorway, and stone bal- 
conies set with trees in tubs. It was one of those glimpses, 
whose intimate charm delights the spectator, in tlie heart 
of Venice ; it delighted Elisabeth, who liad time to study 
it in all its details before the dining-room door opened, 
and Mrs. Sparrow entered with the greeting already 
given. 

“ We shall stay here, my dear, if you please,” she said, 
drawing forward one of the straw-seated chairs. There 
is a little Bible-class going on just now in the sitting-room ; 
a few earnest young Christians we have been able to 
gather together. We do our best wlierever we may be ; 
but it is uphill work to fight the battle in an idolatrous 
land, and Venice is a most worldly place. Well, my dear, 
and now let me look at you. Why, you have grown, 
Elisabeth, decidedly grown — and — and improved.” 

Oh ! ” said Elisabeth, coloring and laughing a little. 
‘‘Yes, I know that I have grown,” she said ;“I am much 
taller than when I left Schlossberg.” 

“Grown in mind also, I trust,” said Mrs. Sparrow. 
“ There was room for it, my dear Elisabeth. You married 
far too young, my dear. If I could have had you for a year 
or two to myself, to train you carefully, as I have trained 
Mary, it would have been much, much better for you. A 
child of your age had no business to get married.” 

“ I was eighteen,” said Elisabeth, a little wistfully. 

“Only just eighteen, and very childish for your years ; 
I never knew a young girl of eighteen more childish for 
her years. You will admit that, I think, my dear.” 

“ Yes,” said Elisabetli, slowly, looking down at her hands, 
“ I think I was a child ; I was too young. I didn’t very 


300 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


well know what I was doing. But I am not a child now,” 
she added, looking up. 

I should hope not, my dear — 1 should hope not, indeed, 
after being three years a wife, and a clergyman’s wife, too. 
I wish I could feel sure, Elisabeth, that you have properly 
felt the responsibilities and privileges of your position. I 
shall want you to tell me all about your parish, your 
schools and your clothing clubs and your motliers’ meet- 
ings. I am always deeply interested in the working of 
such matters, and I sliall like Mary to hear about them 
also. It is my constant regret that there is so little scope 
for them in these foreign chaplaincies.” 

Elisabeth felt her heart contract witli a dreary pang ; 
she wished Mrs. Sparrow would not talk about Thornton 
Briars ; a chill breath from that melancholy home seemed 
to pass by and darken Venice. I am afraid,” she said in 
answer, ‘‘that I don’t know as much as I ought about all 
these things. We are a great deal away, you know, from 
Thornton Briars ; and when we are there I don’t like to 
trouble my husband to tell me about them. flow is 
Mary ?” she added hastily, anxious to avert the reproof she 
saw gathering on Mrs. Sparrow’s brow. 

“Mary is well,” said Mrs. Sparrow, austerely. “lam 
grieved, my dear, I am more than grieved to hear you 
speak in this way of matters of so much importance. Who 
sliould know about all these things, as you term them, but 
the vicar’s wife? So far as her husband’s parish extends, 
his wife must necessarily be the first personage in it, and 
paramount in everything save those actual offices of the 
church from which women are excluded. It is that, my 
dear Elisabetli, which marks off the clergyman’s wife from 
that of any other profession, and gives her position such 
high significance; there is, I may say, no point that concerns 
her husband’s business on which her word is not of value. 
But we will speak no more of this at present,” Mrs. Spar- 
row added, with benignity; “we shall, I trust, have many 
future opportunities. You were asking about Mary ; Mary 
is well, thank you, though she has had some sad hours 
since you last saw her.” 

“Mary lias?” said Elisabeth, surprised. 

“Yes, my dear. It is not everyone who has your happy 
fortune, your opportunities in life. I can talk to you freely 
on these matters now you are a married woman, my dear 
Elisabeth, and I may confide to you that Mary has had a 
sad disappointment. You remember Herr Nauders, per- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


301 


haps, the young student who was at Frau Werner’s that 
winter.” 

“Oh, yes,” said Elisabeth, smiling ; “he admired Mary 
very much, I used to think.” 

“ Indeed, my dear ? I was not aware you thought of such 
matters at all in those days. Yes, he admired Mary very 
much, and she liked him ; there is no doubt of that, poor 
child ! Her father and I both thought it a settled matter, 
and we should not have disapproved — not at all. It was 
not all we could have wished : an English parish, an Eng- 
lish vicarage like yours, Elisabeth — that is what I could 
really desire for Mary. Still, this young man was about 
to take orders in his own Church, a pure Protestant evan- 
gelical branch, and there need have been no difficulty 
about money. His parents are rich — they live at Hamburg 
— and Mr. Sparrow would not have been exacting. How 
ever, it was not to be. Herr Nauders left at the end of the 
season, and we have heard nothing of him since.” 

“ I think it was very ungrateful of him,” said Elisabeth. 
“ I mean apart from Mary. You were so kind to him, Mrs. 
Sparrow.” 

“ Ah, my dear, kindness ” said Mrs. Sparrow. “ No, 

we heard nothing more of him. Mary bore it as a young 
Christian girl should ; but it was a -trial to her, of course, 
poor child — it was a trial. However, there is an overrul- 
ing Providence that governs everything for the best ; and 
we often live to be thankful for the disappointment of our 
hopes, though you are too young yet, Elisabeth, and too 
fortunate, to have learned all the Christian’s lessons of 
experience. There were no difficulties in your way my 
dear.” 

“ No,” said Elisabeth, slowly, “there were no difficulties 
in my way. ” She sat still for a moment. “ I am so sorry 
for Mary,” she said, then, rising to go, “ is she out ? I 
should so like to see her again.” 

“ She is not out ; she is engaged at present with the 
Bible-class,” said Mary’s mother ; “it might be profitable, 
my dear Elisabeth, if you could join it also. No ? You 
are too much engaged with your husband? Well, I have 
nothing to say against that, my dear ; one’s first duty, after 
all, is to one’s husband. That, at least, I trust you have 
learned, Elisabeth?” 

“I hope so,” said Elisabeth, smiling a little dimly. A 
momentary longing came over her to confide in the 
friendly woman before her — a woman who, with all her 


302 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


shortcomings, had had the experience of more than twenty 
years of married life — how her own life seemed to grow 
more difficult every day, whilst an importunate light, shin- 
ing as it were through closed eyes, illuminated her hus- 
band and herself, showing failure, divergence, and differ- 
ences at every step. But confidences came with difficulty 
from Elisabeth ; and the moment the impulse was past, 
she was glad she had not yielded to it. After all, Mrs. 
Sparrow was not the person whom, in a calmer moment, 
she would select as a counsellor ; and in any case, silence, 
not confidences, was always best in life. 

V I hope so,” she repeated, rallying from her brief si- 
lence. ‘‘At any rate, I must go now, Mrs. Sparrow ; my 
husband may be wanting me. Will you give my love to 
Frau Werner > I can’t stop to see her to-day ; but she was 
so kind to me, always. Her children are not here, are 
they ? ” 

“ Mercifully not ! ” said Mrs. Sparrow, with emphasis. 
“ To have those noisy, unruly children here would be in- 
tolerable. We have already far too much to put up with 
as it is. Frau Werner has been sadly spoiled by prosper- 
ity ; I cannot say we experience half the consideration 
she showed us when we first came to her. And now that that 
objectionable Mrs. Cleaver has returned and occupies the 
best apartment, our little society has been entirely spoiled. 
We were a small, but I may say truly harmonious party, 
before she came ; every arrangement that Mr. Sparrow and 
myself, after our long residence in the house, thought our- 
selves entitled to suggest, was cheerfully acquiesced in ; 
but since her arrival there has been nothing but discord. 
Everything has been disarranged to suit her convenience, 
from the seats at the table to the little service we had in- 
stituted in this room, every evening, to conclude the day 
with blessing. You probably don’t remember Mrs. Cleaver, 
Elisabeth ; she left, I believe, just after you came, or per- 
haps, indeed, before.” 

“ I am not sure,” said Elisabeth, doubtfully ; “ there were 
so many people at the pension. Yes, I think I remember 
her ; and that I did not like her at all.” 

“No one could like her,” said Mrs. Sparrow, with deci- 
sion ; “a most objectionable person. She even tried to in- 
terfere with this little meeting and recital for the benefit 
of our new church that we are to have on Friday next. 

‘ Frau Werner,’ she said in my presence — actually in my 
presence, ‘ if Mr. Sparrow wants to hold a meeting, he had 


TH^ FAILURE OF ELISA BETH, 


303 


better have it in his own room. The salon is for public, 
not private use.’ ‘Frau Werner,’ I said, I will remind you 
that I have your promise for the use of the salon. If Mrs. 
Cleaver doesn’t like to attend, there is a simple remedy — 
she can stay away ! ’ ‘I choose to sit in the salon, at my 
own hour and at my own pleasure,’ said Mrs. Cleaver 
— Frau Werner didn’t know how to look, for we already 
had her promise.” 

“ Oh, that is dreadful ! ” said Elisabeth ; “ I don’t think 
the pension can be nearly so nice as it used to be. I am 
glad we had not come here — except on your account dear 
Mrs. Sparrow,” kissing that woman of many trials. 

“Well, my dear Elisabeth, it would have given me 
pleasure had it been ruled that we should be together 
again for a time ; it might not have been unprofitable, I 
think, to you. You were a sad heedless girl — too heedless, 
my dear, both for your temporal and spiritual welfare ; 
though, indeed, as regards the former. Providence has left 
little to be desired — and I cannot see that married life has 
changed you so much as your true friends could wish. I 
should have rejoiced had you been able to join our little 
Bible-class ; but I may at least count upon you for Friday. 
Your husband, I fear, might not feel equal to coming — no, 
no ; I quite u nderstand that. I was grieved to hear from Mr. 
Sparrow how ill he is looking. But I count upon yotiy 
Elisabeth. A person in your position has an influence for 
good or for ill that can hardly be over-estimated. Chris- 
tian humility is very well in its place ; but to neglect the 
opportunities for example and edification belonging to the 
station in which Providence has placed us is not humility ; 
it is sinful neglect.” 

Elisabeth, as she walked slowly homeward from the 
Pension Werner, did not feel at all like a person of posi- 
tion, though she had never accredited herself with much 
Christian humility. She felt like a person who had been 
scolded I The experience had left her somewhat depressed. 
The sort of halo with which memory and imagination had 
invested everything belonging to her days at Schlossberg 
had surrounded Mrs. Sparrow’s head also with a little 
circle of glory. But Mrs. Sparrow was not a woman to 
carry such an ornament with grace ; such saint-like at- 
tributes as she might possess — and she was not without 
them, poor soul — by no means translated themselves into 
pictorial effects. In brief, Elisabeth’s transfiguring me- 
mory had promised her that in finding Mrs. Sparrow again 


304 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


she would find a friend whose wisdom she could trust, 
whose sympathy and discretion she could rely on ; and she 
had found only Mrs. Sparrow, with whom she had never 
had a single idea in common, grateful though she had 
been to her for many kindnesses. She walked on in the 
glowing sunshine, that never glowed too hotly for her, a 
slim figure in her cool gray dress and shady black straw 
hat, feeling that life had presented her with one more dis- 
illusion. Life had many disillusions on hand, it would 
appear — only not Venice ! She had discovered by this 
time that it is possible to walk all over Venice, and she had 
walked a good deal in these last days. Once only had she 
been able to induce her husband to go out in a gondola, 
and that experiment had not been repeated ; he was, in 
fact, one of those strangely luckless people to whom the 
motion of the gondola is unpleasant; and any enjoyment 
he might have derived from a larger acquaintance with 
Venice would have been quite insufficient to compensate 
for the attendant discomfort. He was, for that matter, 
quite content to sit day after day at the window of the sit- 
ting-room, contemplating the shining and splendid view 
spread out before him ; and Elisabeth, finding this to be 
the case, ceased to urge him to further exertion. In this 
she was guided in part by the advice of Gordon Temple, 
who paid them a visit from time to time, and saw little 
sign of that renewed strength in his cousin Robert of 
which the hope was animating his cousin’s wife. In his 
eyes, though he did not say so, Robert Holland was a dy- 
ing man. “Don’t urge your husband to go out,” he said 
one day to Elisabeth, who had accompanied him into the 
ante-room ; ‘‘you have plenty of air and sunshine in your 
rooms — you couldn’t be better situated in that respect — and 
it’s my belief that he gains more good by sitting there 
quietly than he would by going out.” After that, Elisa- 
beth urged her husband no more; but she went out ever;^^ 
day herself. Miss Fawbett — her friends had left Venice 
for a short excursion on the mainland — could seldom be 
induced to stir; and the friction induced by three people 
not in perfect harmony living together would be unbear- 
able, Elisabeth presently protested to herself, without 
some change of ideas on the part of one of them. She at 
least, she felt, could not bear it ! She went out, therefore, 
tp look at Venice with a sense of self-indulgence tempered 
by a sense of penitential remorse at the extraordinary dis*» 
like she felt in leaving her husband to be entertained by 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


305 


Dulcie. She would have felt little less remorse had she 
stayed at home with a view to interfering with that enter- 
tainment. The whole matter was become a perplexed 
torment to her ; she was not incapable of seeing that 
it might be taken simply ; but to take it simply 
had passed beyond her power. It was inconceiv- 
able to her — though that mattered little — that anyone 
should be so indifferent to Venice as Dulcie showed her- 
self to be. Only once had she exhibited any special 
interest in it, on the occasion of one of Gordon Temple’s 
visits when she happened to be present. Miss Fawcett’s 
conversation on that occasion was in the highest degree 
animated and intelligent ; she expressed the liveliest desire 
to see every part of Venice, to become acquainted with 
every artistic and historic treasure it contained. If Gor- 
don did not on the spot place himself and his gondola at 
her disposal during the remainder of her stay, it was not, 
to put it plainly. Miss Dulcie’s fault. 

Gordon, as a fact, never once thought of doing anything 
of the kind. He did not like Miss Fawcett ; he found her 
pretentious and underbred now, as she had appeared to 
him on their first introduction to each other at Thornton 
Briars ; and he was, moreover, preoccupied with Elisabeth, 
to a degree that would have made him indifferent to fas- 
cinations much more potent than poor Dulcie’s. He con- 
tinued to find an extreme charm in her ; if she would have 
occupied his gondola, either with or without his company, 
she might have done so all day long ; but though he more 
than once made her the offer of its use, she invariably de- 
clined it. She gave him no very definite reason for doing 
so ; she had none very definite to give herself ; she simply 
felt sure her husband would prefer that she should. Gor- 
don, who would have declared with some emphasis that 
he was not in the least in love with her — it did not lie at 
all within his scheme of life to fall in love with his cousin’s, 
or with any other man’s wife — found that she continued to 
interest him to a degree that made him begin to calculate, 
at the conclusion of each visit, how soon he might find an 
excuse to pay another. She interested him both in what 
he understood, still more than what he did not understand 
of her life ; in her impulses and her reticences, in her cu- 
rious unripeness, which still gave iier at times the air of a 
schoolgirl confronting life in the rashest ignorance of its 
problems ; in her attitude toward her husband, of which 
he had at once divined the loyalty and the sadness. As 


3 o 6 the failure OF ELISABETH, 

his cousin’s wife, he had the profoundest compassion for 
her. The marriage should never have been allowed, he 
said to himself again and again at this time ; Robert Hol- 
land’s family should have prevented it. What right had 
he had, or Emilia, or any one belonging to it, to sit by and 
see an ignorant girl of eighteen sacrifice herself to a sick 
man nearly twenty years her senior, when they knew, too 
— when they knew, he said angrily to himself one evening 
after he had left them — that it was for her money he had 
married her ? It had been a sin, it had been a crime ; 
looking back, he found it impossible to understand his 
own indifference. All these sentiments he communicated 
the next day in an immense letter to Emilia ; a letter that 
made Madame von Waldorf raise her eyebrows with a cer- 
tain surprise. She was accustomed to her cousin’s vaga- 
ries ; but this tone, adopted in regard to Elisabeth, sur- 
prised and, to a certain extent, displeased her. After all 
— after all, she said to herself, searching her memory, she 
had remonstrated as far as was possible — almost beyond, 
it had seemed to her, the bounds of discretion ; she had 
said what she could to Elisabeth. After all, too, it had 
not been for them to interfere ; it was for her own people, 
and they had consented willingly enough. All this she 
wrote in answer to Gordon ; but when she liad written it, 
she tore the letter up. Gordon was not always perfectly 
reasonable in his moods, and when that was the case she 
preferred to humor rather than to argue with him. As 
a fact, however, she hardly knew how to humor his pre- 
sent mood ; what did he want her to do or to say ? The 
touch of extravagance in his letter displeased her ; Emilia 
disliked extravagance and unruly sentiment of all kinds ; 
and though she might condone these more readily in her 
cousin than in anyone else, she finally, in her answer, 
rather evaded the main points in his letter, touching on 
Elisabeth and her affairs as lightly as possible. 

“ I was intending to write to you, dear Gordon,” so her 
words ran, “ when your letter arrived. I am grieved by 
your account of Robert. Elisabeth’s letters lately have 
spoken of a good deal of improvement in his health ; but 
I know so well how deceptive the fluctuations of illness 
are to anyone in constant attendance on an invalid, that I 
am disposed to accept your opinion in preference to hers. 
Poor Robert ! and poor Elisabeth — I never saw a girl more 
absolutelv in love with the man she was about to marrj^ : 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


307 


SO far she is happy, of course ; but, of course, also, that 
only deepens the sadness to her now of Robert’s illness, 
and she is almost too young for such a responsibility. 
Yes, as you say, she married too young. I wish they could 
have come to Schlossberg for the summer, rather than 
have gone to Venice ; but 1 hope to arrange some plan by 
which I may be able to see Robert, and Aunt Irma, I 
know, adheres to her idea of going to Venice before the 
weather there becomes intolerably hot. She is Elisabeth’s 
best friend ; I shall feel more easy when I know she is 
near her. 

Your father has been a little ailing this day or two, but 
is now fairly well again. He — we are all looking forward 
to seeing you again before very long. Ida is working a 
great surprise for you ; she desires me to tell you so much, 
but not a word more. She wants you to go on guessing 
wliat it is until you come. 

“ Yours affectionately, 

Emilia.” 

Gordon, on reading this letter, crumpled it up and flung 
it into the canal along which he happened to be passing 
in his gondola. He immediately fished it out again, how- 
ever, and thrust it into his pocket ; but he said to himself 
that when Emilia set herself to write a letter dictated by femi- 
nine spite, no one could do it better. This w^as hard upon 
the letter, wliich was certainly innocent enough ; but it is 
not to be denied that Madame von Waldorf, who had been 
disturbed by the tone of Gordon’s effusion, had allowed a 
certain tinge of malice to creep both into her expressions 
and her reticences. She had intended to conciliate Gor- 
don ; on the whole, it had been easier to provoke him a 
little. It was the paragraph about Elisabeth that provoked 
him the most. It was cold-hearted, he said to himself ; it 
was simply heartless to write mere phrases when the 
W’armest sympathy was demanded ; it vras puxe affectation 
to suggest that after three years’ experience of a man like 
Robert Holland, the attitude of a girl who had married 
him at eighteen could be the same toward him as before 
their marriage. It was, to some extent, a direct conse- 
quence of this letter that, liis day’s work ended, he resolved 
to call at the Casa Holland. He had always, in a sense, to 
make up his mind to call there. Flis cousin Robert’s 
welcome could hardly be termed genial, and he could not 
be always certain that his presence afforded pleasure to 


3 o 8 the failure OF ELISABETH, 

his cousin’s wife. In general, there seemed to be some- 
thing of thunder in the air. His point of view, indeed, 
that Elisabeth was the victim of his own family — a point 
of view almost as unreasonable as Madame von Waldorf 
held it to be — was simply the formula by which he ex- 
plained his visits to himself. If Elisabeth had suffered 
through them, it devolved on him, so far as possible, to 
redeem the situation. The conclusion was, on the whole, 
as unreasonable as the premises ; but reason, so far as has 
been ascertained, has never yet been the exclusive guide 
of susceptible mortals. Madame von Waldorf, one of the 
most reasonable of her sex, was not incapable of yielding 
to an impulse that reflection would have told her would 
have an effect directly opposite to that she might wish to 
produce. It was, I say, a not indirect consequence of her 
letter that Gordon determined to pay a visit that evening 
to the Casa Holland. He postponed it, however, until 
after the table-d’hote dinner at his hotel. The invalid 
hours kept by his cousin baffled him a little; he seemed 
to be always stumbling on some incongruous meal. He 
thought he remembered, however, that they had changed 
their supper hour in Venice to nine o’clock, and at a little 
before eight he had himself rowed up to the water-door of 
the old palazzo. 

On entering the sitting-room he found himself in what 
he at once felt to be an atmosphere of unusual tranquillity. 
Miss Fawcett was not visible, and Gordon, presently in- 
quiring for her, learnt that she was absent ; she had gone 
that morning to spend a few days with the schoolfellow 
already mentioned ; they were to visit Padua and Bologna 
and other cities on the mainland before the extreme heat 
set in. Gordon wondered whether the unwonted placidity 
he seemed to perceive were due to Miss Dulcie’s absence; 
had it been possible for him to ask Elisabeth, she might 
have unhesitatingly replied that it was. To her, the de- 
parture of Dulcie for even a few days was the removal of 
a weight so heavy, it left her spirits so free, her conscience 
so clear, that she was not far, for the moment, from laying 
.all the troubles of her married life on that young lady’s 
slim shoulders ; the more so that her husband happened 
to be in an unusually cheerful and equable mood. The 
cause of that mood was, as a fact, complex, and not to be 
laid to Dulcie’s charge alone. In the first place, Mr. 
Holland was feeling unusually well. It was one of those 
rare days, known to all invalids, when some secret spring 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


309 


of strength seems touched, giving good hope of future 
recovery ; and the sad experience that a few hours will see 
the end of the strength, the fading of the hope, has noth- 
ing to say to the relief of the moment. In the next place, 
he missed Dulcie exceedingly, and a point of good feeling, 
aided by his passing cheerfulness, persuaded him to keep 
the sentiment to himself. He was very fond of Dulcie, as 
has been said ; in many ways, and for reasons that have 
been given, he preferred her society to that of his wife, 
and he saw no reason in morality or conduct why he should 
not ; she admired him more, she entertained him better. 
But of the two, he would have missed Elisabeth the most ; 
she had become the more necessary to his comfort. It 
did not occur to Mr. Holland that he had latterly given his 
wife little reason to think so — the fact had not escaped 
Dulcie ; it was a root of bitterness to that young lady, 
little suspected by Elisabeth — but it did occur to him 
vaguely that she might sometimes have cause for annoy- 
ance in the preference that he gave, and occasionally 
through pure perversity, to Dulcie over herself. The 
preference, in the points selected, was a perfectly just one, 
he would have said ; but Mr. Holland had a conscience, 
and the perversity now and again found him out. His 
conscience, at any rate, urged him to the grace of being 
more than usually amiable to his wife that evening, that 
she might not immediately discover how much he missed 
that third person, whose presence Elisabeth had found so 
proverbially incommodious. 

‘‘ Well, my dear,'’ he said, with an accent of kindness, 
as she handed him his tea ; “ so here we are. Darby and 
Joan again.” 

Elisabeth smiled a little in answer without speaking. 
The relief to her was immense — Dulcie’s absence, this hour 
of kindness with her husband ; and yet almost immediately 
she felt a sense of restraint settling down upon her. 
These hours were becoming too rare, the intervals sepa- 
rating them too long ; she was baffled by memories of all 
the discordant moments that lay between. A word wrong- 
ly placed, and the discord might begin again. Elisabeth 
always lived a good deal in the emotion of the hour. She 
forgot readily — she forgot, indeed, too readily, since she 
was apt to repeat her errors of judgment ; but this lesson 
of experience she had been three years in learning, and it 
could hardly be unlearnt again. She was extraordinarily 
rash by nature in plucking the flower of the moment to 


310 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


see it wither in her hand; but with Mr. Holland she had 
learnt — especially in these last few weeks she had learnt 
— something of prudence. A load was lifted from her, 
and yet she felt rather sad, and uncertain what to do. 
She was glad to remember that Mr. Sparrow had promised 
to come in later and have an hour’s talk with her husband. 
She offered to read aloud meanwhile, but Mr. Holland was 
indisposed for that entertainment. 

“ I don’t know,” he said, a higher enjoyment than to 
sit here at this hour and contemplate the view. I don’t 
know anything pleasanter. It seems to me, my dear, that 
you don’t appreciate this view as you should.” 

Oh, I do,” said Elisabeth ; ‘‘it is more beautiful than 
anything I could have imagined.” She went and stood 
behind him for a moment, looking out at the wide scene 
glowing in a light that grew more golden from one mo- 
ment to another as the day declined ; then she turned 
away. It was too lovely ; it dazzled her mind as the sun 
might have dazzled her eyes. She took up her w’ork, and 
sitting down by her husband, began to sew. 

It was on this placid scene that Gordon entered. Arriv- 
ing in this more genial moment, he was received with 
greater cordiality than Mr. Holland often showed ; and 
the sight of him sitting there, pallid, languid, a doomed 
man, yet with something of cheerful content in his air, 
moved Gordon to more sympathy than he could always 
summon up for his cousin, whatever pity he might 
feel for a fellow-creature in so sad a strait. He made 
some commonplace remark about the beauty of the even- 
ing. 

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Holland; “and I’m beginning to 
think you have not said too much of Venice. This is my 
way of enjoying it, you know, and I can’t imagine one 
much better on the whole. Here I sit and see it all with- 
out stirring from my chair ; no trouble of running about 
with guide-books.” 

“Oh, you’re quite right,” said Gordon. “People give 
themselves a great deal too much trouble with guide books. 
But you’re uncommonly lucky in your quarters, you know ; 
here you have the finest view in Venice before you, with- 
out, as you say, the trouble of going to look for it. Still, 
there are one or two points I should have been glad to 
take you to see, if you had liked the motion of the gon- 
dola better. All this represents what is most splendid in 
Venice ; but there are other things besides.” 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 311 

Ah, that’s what my wife says,” said Mr. Holland. You 
told us— -what was it you told us Elisabeth ? About some 
odd corner you had found. My wife walks about a great 
deal, you know : she declares you can walk all over 
Venice.” 

‘‘I was hoping,” said Gordon, turning to Elisabeth with 
some hesitation in his voice, “that I might, perhaps, in- 
duce you to come out with me for a little while this even- 
ing. You have not been on the lagoons at all, I think, 
and this is about the best moment for them.” 

“ Go, my dear, by all means,” said Mr. Holland, as 
Elisabeth involuntarily turned her eyes on him before an- 
swering. “Why not? I never mind being left alone, as 
you know. Besides, Sparrow will be coming in pres- 
ently.” 

“ I should like to go,” said Elisabeth, turning lier head 
toward Gordon with one of her diffident, fleeting smiles. 
“ But I don’t like to leave you,” she immediately added, 
addressing her husband. 

“No, no, my dear, I should wish you to go ; I should 
wish you to see what you can,” he replied. “ It does very 
well for me,” he continued, as Elisabeth, still half reluc- 
tantly, rose and left the room to put on her hat — “ it does 
for me to sit here quietly ; but my wife is young — she likes 
to run about and see all that is to be seen.” 

“ Naturally,” said Gordon, not knowing exactly what to 
say. He wondered what was the immediate cause of his 
cousin’s affable mood ; it struck him as a little forced, as 
not quite genuine, a trifle sinister, in fact. In this he did 
great injustice to Mr. Holland, who was very well pleased 
with his own efforts to be amiable ; they did not always 
seem possible to him where his wife was concerned. When 
Elisabeth presently returned, pulling on her shabby little 
gloves, and sadly conscious that when she stepped into the 
gondola she would exhibit a shabby, though pretty little 
boot, he addressed her in the same tone of kindness. 

“Take care of yourself, my dear,” he said ; “ I hope you 
will have a pleasant time. You needn’t hurry back, you 
know.” 

“ No, it would be a pity to hurry back,” said Gordon ; 
“ for what I propose,” he continued to Elisabeth, as they 
moved toward the door, “ is to row out toward the Lido, 
and return to Venice after dusk. There is no moon to- 
night, unluckily I suppose I should say ; but, to my mind, 
no city can dispense better with a moon than Venice. I 


312 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


don’t mean that it doesn’t adorn the moonlight when the 
moonlight is there ! ” 

‘‘Yes, I should like that,” said Elisabeth, with a certain 
eagerness ; “ that is what Miss Fawcett’s friends were say- 
ing, when they called yesterday — that she ought to row out 
toward the Lido, and return after sunset.” 

“ Oh, it is not an original idea,” said her companion, 
smiling ; “ I am afraid it’s the thing to do ; but in this 
case the thing happens to be very well worth doing. So 
you have lost Miss Fawcett,” he continued, presently, 
when they had taken their seats in the gondola ; “ you 
miss her, perhaps.” 

Elisabeth did not at once answer. “ I don’t know,” she 
said then. 

She turned away her head as she spoke, which added to 
the flatness of the response, and seemed to preclude fur- 
ther discussion of the subject. Gordon had by this time 
become accustomed to these sudden drops in conversation 
with Elisabeth. They had disconcerted him at first ; but 
since, when we are charmed with a person, our first pleas- 
ure lies in finding a charm in everything that he or she 
does, he had ended by liking these somewhat abrupt and 
unconventional shocks. He changed the subject. 

“ Robert was looking well this evening,” he said, rather 
hesitatingly ; then wondered why he had told such a lie. 
It was a lie in the sense that it might induce in her the 
deception that his cousin was radically better. She turned 
her face to him again immediately, however. 

“You thought so? I am glad,” she said. “I thought 
so, too. Venice has done a great deal for him.” 

Her words were cheerful, but her face did not light up 
as it sometimes did when she spoke of her hope of his re- 
covery. She leaned back in the gondola, looking down at 
her folded hands. Mr. Holland had rather overacted his 
amiability, perhaps ; for it had impressed his wife, also, 
with a vague sense of unreality and discomfort. Pres- 
ently, however, as on a former occasion when she had 
gone out with Gordon, the scene around her drew all her 
thoughts to itself. They had left the city behind them, 
and were half rowing, half floating toward the Lido. The 
sun had set, not in flaming splendor, but in serene gold ; 
and the luminous twilight, the warm mysterious blue of 
the dusk, fell on the far-reaching waters like a gentle 
benediction. The two talked at intervals as they floated 
along. Elisabeth told her companion of how she had first 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 313 

come abroad as a girl ; she had thought it, she said, smil- 
ing, the most wonderful thing that could happen to any- 
one, and she thought so still ; she told him how one thing 
and another had impressed her. She talked quickly and 
shyly, with lapses into silence, as though she already re- 
pented of her partial confidences, till some word from her 
companion brought her to speak again. Presently they 
botli fell silent, as though huslied into harmony with the 
great stillness that surrounded them, interrupted only by 
the occasional splash of the oar as the gondolier urged the 
boat forward again. They had turned and were drifting 
back toward Venice now, to where the lights of the city 
shone distant beyond the silent spaces around them. 
Vague reflections trembled on the vast liquid plain, at 
once gray and luminous ; the stars were beginning to 
thicken overhead ; the long lines of the sentinel piles 
stood up dark against the sky, shifting and moving slowly, 
as it seemed, to accompany their movement ; but beyond, 
remote, motionless, like the entrance to another world un- 
vexed by earthly storms, tlie islands stood ranged on the 
horizon, fading before their eyes into the remoter dusk. 
Elisabeth roused herself, and leaning forward, clasped her 
hands round her knees, uttering a profound sigh. 

‘‘Well,’' said Gordon, “this is Venice ! Are 3^011 satis- 
fied ? " 

“ Oh, satisfied ! ” she said. The answer might be ambig- 
uous, but there was nothing doubtful in the expression of 
her e)^es as she turned them for a moment on her compan- 
ion. She sat bending forward as before, her gaze fixed 
on the horizon. All at once her figure relaxed ; she dropped 
back into her seat. 

“You are tired. I have brought 3'^ou too far," said Gor- 
don, with great concern. 

“ No, I couldn’t be — I hardly ever am tired, I think," 
said Elisabeth, smiling a little. But her voice had an ac- 
cent of despondency in it, and Gordon, leaning back, gave 
some direction to the gondolier as he stood resting idly on 
his pole. The man roused himself, and the boat began to 
move swiftly toward Venice. Gordon turned again to his 
companion. 

“ You are not cold, I hope," he said, with anxiety. “ You 
have no extra wrap. I’m afraid." 

“ But I am not cold in the least," said Elisabeth, with 
some eagerness, “nor tired either; how could I be ? I 
never enjoyed anything so much. I was enjoying it too 


3^4 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


much. I was thinking that a good deal of our time here 
is gone already.” She paused. That was all,” she con- 
cluded, turning to Gordon with a smile. 

“Oh, you mustn’t think of that,” he answered, quickly. 
“We must contrive ; we must arrange. If the place is 
really doing Robert good, he mustn’t think of moving at 
present. I am sure that could be arranged.” 

“ Perhaps — no, we needn’t think about it yet,” she said, 
with a quick return upon her emotion that Gordon had 
noticed in her before. But his words had brought her 
small comfort. A little sooner, a little later — what did it 
matter ? Day by day the chain was shortening that would 
draw them back to England ; that was the thought that 
had stabbed her a moment ago. When first she had heard 
she was to go to Venice, the wings of life had seemed to 
spread again for Elisabeth ; again she had seemed to stand, 
as at seventeen, on the threshold of an open future, a 
boundless world ; and now it was the old life that lay be- 
fore her, with its sad limitations, its sorry details. Of 
course it was all right ; the future had been hers to choose, 
and she had made her choice three years ago ; but, gliding 
now in the immense freedom of two heavens, as it were — 
the heaven above, the heaven reflected in the watery 
plains below — her soul rose for a passionate moment in re- 
volt against her lot. She had been too young — too young ! 
Meanwhile she sat impassive at Gordon’s side, gazing be- 
fore her as she leaned back in her seat, and he had only 
the dimmest perception of her mood ; he understood only 
that the prospect of leaving Venice had for the moment 
marred her joy in Venice. They were near the entrance 
of the Grand Canal now, and as they presently approached 
the Piazetta he addressed Elisabeth again. 

“Would you like to land here, Mrs. Holland ? ” he said. 
“ We can leave the gondola and walk home by the Piazza. 
You have not been there, perhaps, in the evening. 

“ Oh, I should like to go. Would it take us much 
longer ? ” said Elisabeth. His first words had broken 
through her unaccustomed mood ; they had brought her 
back instantly to every-day cares and considerations. Still, 
it seemed harder than usual to return to their silent sitting- 
room, or Mr. Sparrow’s conversation. 

“ It will make very little difference,” Gordon answered. 
“ I will tell the man to set us down at the Piazzetta, and 
then you will have a fair idea of how this part of Venice 
looks at night. As soon as there is a moon we will go out 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


315 


again. After all, moonlight in Venice is not to be de- 
spised/’ 

The boat drew up as he desired, and they made their 
way to the Piazza. The night was very warm, the wide 
pavement thronged with people ; the brilliant scene was 
at its most brilliant moment. It would be little to say that 
Elisabeth thrilled with emotion ; every fibre of her being 
quivered in response to the wonder, the strange splendor 
of these new impressions — the lights, the hum of voices, 
the festal air below, the domes of San Marco aud the solemn 
shaft of the Campanile rising against the night sky ; and 
out yonder the still reaches of the lagoons trembling and 
faintly luminous beneath the stars. She declined Gordon’s 
proposal, however, that they should secure a little table 
and ices in front of one of the gorgeous cafes. The sug- 
gestion wore an air of such dissipation by contrast with 
the austere simplicity of her ordinary life, that her anxious 
conscience assured her that her husband would disapprove. 
Nevertheless, when, after traversing the Piazza, Gordon 
proposed that they should walk through the Merceria, she 
agreed after a moment’s hesitation. 

“ The Merceria — that is close by, is it not ?” she said. 

‘‘Yes, close at hand — the street of shops, you know, 
that lies on the other side of that gateway. I should like 
you to see it at night ; it is another aspect of Venice from 
this. You are not tired, I hope?” 

“No, oh no !” she answered ; “but I mustn’t stay out 
too late. I’m afraid it is rather late already.” 

He made no answer to this ; and a few minutes later 
they found themselves threading the narrow and pictur- 
esque thoroughfare that winds through that quarter of 
Venice. It was brighter, hotter, more crowded even than 
the Piazza : there was an Jncessant shuffling of feet and 
flutter of fans as the people in thick ranks moved slowly 
to and fro ; every shop flamed with lights and the brilliant 
colors of the paper fans that hung festooned over half the 
fronts ; above this vivid illumination the houses rose dark 
and lofty into the night ; only a narrow strip of blue sky 
with a star or two shining here and there showed between 
them. Elisabeth lingered a little as she went, looking at 
one thing and another her companion pointed out. There 
was not much to see ; it was the light, the color, the bril- 
liancy, the animation of the life, that gave the narrow 
winding way its distinctive charm. 

Presently they both fell silent again ; they had reached 


316 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


the end of the street, and found themselves in a darkness 
that by contrast seemed profound. Before them a little 
bridge crossed a narrow canal : one gondola lay black upon 
the black water ; its lamp shone, the single light that illu- 
minated the scene. Elisabeth stood leaning over the para- 
pet of the bridge, gazing down on the darkness below ; her 
excitement had suddenly died out. 

Some other night,” she said at last, turning her face 
to Gordon with a smile that he saw dimly through the 
darkness, when I am at Thornton Briars, perhaps, I shall 
think of this night, and wonder how it can ever have been. ’ 

She smiled, but her voice took an involuntary accent of 
sadness as she spoke. Gordon moved a step or two, then 
came back to her side. He also was excited. The even- 
ing had held no novelty for him in the sense that it had 
for Elisabeth ; he knew his Venice by heart ; but Venice 
has always some subtle surprise for those who love her ; 
and he had been seeing it, moreover, through Elisabeth’s 
eyes. The next moment he had spoken words he would 
have given a good deal to recall. 

I wish,” he said, that you were never going back to 
Thornton Briars ; I hate to think of it ; I hate to think of 
the dreariness of your life in that dreary house. Forgive 
me if I seem impertinent, but of course I see — I can’t 
help seeing — that you’re unhappy, that your life is not a 
happy one.” He hurried on. I can’t tell you how I 
feel about it,” he said ; as Robert’s nearest relation, I 
can’t help knowing and understanding — if one could do 
anything for you ” 

His last words came falteringly to a dead stop, under 
the influence of what he felt to be the increasing immo- 
bility of Elisabeth’s attitude. She answered him at last 
without turning her head. 

“ I don’t think I have given you any reason to say such 
things to me,” she said, gently ; I would much rather you 
did not say them.” 

She moved away so quickly that he lost sight of her for 
a moment in the darkness. He immediately rejoined her, 
however, but she did not slacken her hurrying step ; she 
explained it in a minute by saying that she was afraid it 
was very late ; and they made their way onwards with 
such quickness as the slow moving and lingering crowd 
would permit. The distance was not great, but Gordon 
had never in his life found a walk more interminable. He 
said to himself that he had blundered preposterously ; he 


THE FAILURE OE ELISABETH. 


3^7 


could not, indeed, believe that he said anything that 
should necessarily offend Elisabeth, but if she were of- 
fended, that only went to prove that he had blundered. 
He said nothing more, however, until they reached the 
door of the old palazzo opening on to the narrow side 
alley. 

‘‘You must allow me to see you up this dark staircase, 
Mrs. Holland,” he said then — she had paused a moment. 
“ It is almost as public and much darker than the street.” 

She made no objection, and they ascended the wide 
flights of stairs to tlie second landing, where a lamp was 
burning outside the door. Elisabeth rang the bell, and 
turning, held out her hand to Gordon. 

“ Good-night,” she said, without looking at him. “ Tliank 
you for all the enjoyment I have had this evening.” 

“ All that is nothing,” he said, if I have ended by suc- 
ceeding in vexing you.” 

She stood looking before her for a minute as if she did 
not know how to answer him. Then, as the door-handle 
was heard to turn within, she looked up ; and as she 
raised her eyes he saw that they were wet with tears. 

“ If you vexed me,” slie said, gently as before, “ I am 
sure that you did not mean to do so.” 

She vanished from his sight as old Maddalena appeared 
behind the opening door with a swinging lamp in her hand. 
Elisabeth passed her by quickly, and madeher way into the 
sitting-room. It was not really very late ; it was only the 
invalid habits of the household that made it appear so ; 
but the sitting-room was vacant and unlighted. Elisabeth 
felt a pang of compunction at the sight of the empty room. 
In all their married life it had never before happened that 
she had been out just at that hour ; and taking off her hat 
and gloves, she went in quickly to the bedroom, entering 
softly, in case her husband should be asleep. He was 
asleep, but not yet in bed. He was seated in his dressing- 
gown, leaning back in a roomy arm chair ; an open praver- 
book lay on the table before him : he had dropped off to 
sleep whilst reading. Elisabeth, moving with noiseless 
footsteps to his side, stood motionless for awhile, gazing 
down on his pale and tired face with an immense and pitv- 
ing tenderness. Her momentary revolt was over ; she 
loved her husband — oh, she did love him ! If there were 
differences between them, it was greatly her fault. He 
was ill and worn and feeble ; slie tried him, no doubt, with 
her exacting temper, her childish desire for amusement. 


3 i 8 the failure OF ELISABETH. 

There should be an end of all that. She dropped on her 
knees at his side. What did the whole world matter if she 
could but learn to please him ? Her cheeks flamed for a 
moment as she recalled Gordon’s words. If slie had cause 
for sadness, it concerned herself alone ; herself and the 
life she shared with her husband. 

Just then Mr. Holland awoke, and half roused to the 
consciousness that he had fallen asleep in his chair and 
that she was beside him, found himself in a mood of kind- 
liness. 

You here, my dear ? ” he said. What time is it ? ” 

I don’t know ; I’ll see,” said Elisabeth ; but she made 
no movement to rise. With a sudden impulse she put 
her arms about her husband, hiding her face on his shoul- 
der, trembling with an emotion she could not at once con- 
trol. Mr. Holland, fully roused now, regarded her with 
astonishment. 

My dear ! ” he said once or twice — ‘‘ my dear ! ” 

Elisabeth could not answer. She very rarely lost com- 
plete self-control ; she was too reticent by nature, she 
was too much withheld by diffidence. But a note of pas- 
sion out of the past had touched her now, and she could 
not immediately silence it. No ; the differences between 
herself and her husband were not irreparable. She would 
tell him — she could have told him now — of all her con- 
sciousness of past failure ; she would compel a new be- 
ginning to their common life. Was he not, after all, tlie 
spiritual guide that she had chosen ? He put up his hand 
at last to disengage hers. 

Elisabeth, my dear,” he said, I am very tired.”' 

Elisabeth’s hands dropped to her side instantly. Her 
passion passed like a flame blown upon. 

Oh, I am sorry !” she said, starting up. ‘‘It is my 
fault ; I oughtn’t to have stayed out so late.” 

“ Not entirely,” he answered. ‘‘Sparrow stayed later 
than I could have wished. He began talking after supper, 
and the time passed without his noticing the hour. Still, 
another evening, I should wish you to return earlier. Spar- 
row stayed on, I think, expecting to see you return.' I 
should prefer, indeed, your not going out in the evening 
at all.” 

“ I will not,” said Elisabeth, divided between humility 
and resentment at being made the subject of Mr. Sparrow’s 
remarks. “Would you like me to read to you?” she 
asked, “or shall I come again presently ?” 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


3^9 


‘‘Neither, my dear, thank you. I have had enough 
reading, I believe, for this evening.” He closed his prayer- 
book as he spoke ; he was fully awakened now, and went 
on with increased gravity. “ I was surprised, I own,” lie 
said, “ not to see you appear at the supper-table. Certainly, 
I should prefer your not going out again in the evening 
with Gordon. Sparrow thought your absence strange, I 
feel sure ; and I fail to understand what Gordon was 
thinking of in keeping you out to such an extraordinary 
hour.” 

“ It was my fault,” said Elisabeth. Mr. Temple would, 
of course, have brought me back at any hour I wished. I 
ought to have asked him to bring me straight home ; in- 
stead of that, we went to the Piazza and the Merceria.” 

Mr. Holland was unmoved by her candor, which, indeed, 
had cost her little effort. She had felt impelled to defend 
Gordon. 

“My dear,” he said, “don’t let it occur again — indeed, 
I must beg that it does not occur again. And now, if you 
will leave me, I believe I may be able to get to sleep with- 
out any reading to-night. Certainly, I sleep much better 
in Venice.” 

Elisabeth left him as desired, but it was late that 
night before she herself slept. This was one of those times 
when the problems of life seemed to her many and per- 
plexing. Nevertheless, her last reflections that night were 
of a primitive simplicity ; they embodied themselves in a 
resolution to be a better wife henceforward than she had 
ever been before. 

As for Gordon, he forgot as he walked home that night 
to say to himself, as he had often said in these last weeks, 
that when he fell in love it should be in the easiest and 
least complicated manner possible. He simply assured 
himself that he did not, after all, regret what he had said 
to Elisabeth ; he remembered only that when she raised 
her eyes to his they were wet with tears. 


THE failure of ELISABETH. 


20 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE TRIVIAL HISTORY OF FORTY FRANCS. 

Youth has an extraordinary faith in good resolutions, 
which it formulates with the greatest ease, by simply omit- 
ting all the considerations that go to complicate the so- 
cial problems of life. Elisabeth’s good resolutions, being 
framed with an exclusive reference to her own conduct, 
had a sad habit of collapsing when brought into contact 
with her husband, whose good resolutions, if, as it may 
be charitably surmised, he made any, must have been 
framed on the same principle, though nearly twenty extra 
years of experience might, one would think, have taught 
him better. But to the irritable and changing moods of a 
sick man, experience has little to say ; a sad fatality rules 
them ; already that choice of ways insisted upon by the 
tlieologian is to a great extent closed ; for better, for worse, 
the path worn by a lifetime has to be followed. Thus it 
happened that the very next day a wider breach threat- 
ened between Elisabeth and her husband than had yet 
opened between them. It was no very tragic event that 
brought this about ; our heroine’s history so far moves, as 
we have seen, on no very heroic lines ; it was merely a 
small and dismal question concerning forty francs. 

It was on this day that the meeting in connection with 
the new Schlossberg church, of which mention has been 
made, was to be held at the Pension Werner. It had been 
postponed for some days, on account of the indisposition 
of the young lady whose recitations were to form its prin- 
cipal attraction ; but it had been finally fixed in the end 
of the week following that originally decided on. Elisa- 
beth, having pledged herself to go, saw no immediate way 
of escape. She wished — she wished with all her heart she 
did, for two uncomfortable giants stood confronting her : 
she would have to remind her husband that she was 
going; and she would have to ask him for some money. 
Elisabeth rarely had any money of her own. Long ago, 
Mr. Holland had directed that all household bills should 
be sent in to him ; and not long after their marriage he had 
suggested a similar arrangement to Elisabeth in regard to 
her dress allowance. ‘Wou can get whatever you want, 
my dear,” he had said, “and I will settle the bills. In that 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 321 

way we shall have only one purse, which will be better.” 
To have only one purse had seemed an ideal arrangement 
to Elisabeth in those early days. Since then it had seemed 
to her less ideal ; for one purse, she had discovered, meant 
no purse at all so far as she was concerned, but an endless 
discussion over every bill. More than once she had 
begged her husband to make her a fixed allowance, how- 
ever small ; but Mr. Holland had preferred to keep the 
expenditure entirely under his own control. ‘‘You have 
only to ask for money, my dear, when you are in need of 
it,” he had said ; and Elisabeth went about with empty 
pockets. To day, however, the matter was to some ex- 
tent, simplified to her by Mr. Holland himself. “I am 
aware of the fact,” he had answered, when Elisabeth had 
found courage to remind him that the obnoxious meeting 
was to take place that day ; and when, soon after dinner, 
she returned to the sitting-room after putting on her hat, 
she found him standing before a desk, engaged in examin- 
ing a bill. 

“As you will pass the chemist’s shop on your way, my 
dear,” he said, “ I should be obliged by your settling this 
account. I desired them to send it in before it ran any fur- 
ther and I am glad to have done so ; the price of drugs 
here strikes me as enormous ; you must speak about it. 
The bill ought to be reduced considerably ; one or two 
items I have marked as erroneous ; you will see that they 
are corrected, in any case. The bill, as it stands, is thirty- 
one francs ninety centimes; as corrected, it comes to 
twenty-nine francs fifty-five centimes ; you will on no ac- 
count pay more than that, and less if possible. I shall 
have to give you forty francs, I believe, so that you will, 
at any rate, have ten francs forty-five centimes change ; 
and you will oblige me, my dear, by buying some lemons 
with the odd centimes on your way home.” 

He gave her the bill, and taking a purse from the desk, 
extracted from it with slow deliberation two gold pieces 
of twenty francs each. “You have no change, my dear ? ” 
he said. “That is unfortunate, fori have nothing, I find, 
smaller than these twenty-franc pieces ; the paper money, 
to which I strongly object, would, I believe, have answered 
my purpose liere. You will, however, represent to the 
chemist that his bill being paid at once, and in gold, a 
considerable discount should be allowed. You quite un- 
derstand ? ” 

“Yes, 1 quite understand,” said Elisabeth; “I. think 


21 


322 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


that very likely that may make a difference She took 
the bill, and put the gold pieces in lier little leather purse. 
‘‘ I have no other money, Robert," she said after a minute’s 
hesitation. 

‘‘Well?’’ he said, regarding her with a cold eye, and 
pausing in the act of locking up his desk. 

“ There will be,’’ began Elisabeth — she summoned up 
her courage — “ there will be a collection for the church 
after the meeting," she said, “ I think — I am sure that I 
shall be expected to give something.’’ 

“ I see no necessity,’’ answered Mr. Holland, “ I gave 
Sparrow to understand clearly that I approved neither of 
the meeting nor of its object. He understands perfectly 
that I choose to have nothing to do with it. The claims 
on my purse at home are sufficiently heavy. I cannot un- 
dertake to support charities abroad." 

“ I know,” said Elisabeth ; “ and if I had thought about 
it I would not have gone. But as I am going” — she red- 
dened very much — “ I don’t see,” she said, rather helplessly, 
“what I am to do. Mrs. Sparrow will think it so strange 
and so unkind of me. She says so much about my posi- 
tion as your wife, and of setting an example.” 

“ Well, well,” said Mr. Holland, relenting a little. “ Per- 
haps you are right, my dear ; it might look singular. Not 
that I attach much importance to that ; but it is as well to 
avoid occasions of offence. I don’t know, though, whether 
I have any small change.” He felt in his pockets, and pro- 
duced, after some search, a couple of francs. “ If you like 
to give these, my dear, you can. I can’t say I think they 
will be well employed.” 

“ Thank you,” said Elisabeth, rather wistfully. She 
dropped the francs into her purse along with the gold, 
wondering how she should manage to conceal from Mrs. 
Sparrow the small amount of her donation. She felt sure 
that that lady would have a keen eye, when the plate went 
round, to the donors and their respective gifts. She said 
no more, however, having learned with some completeness 
the lesson not to expend useless words, and slipping her 
purse into her pocket, went on her reluctant way. 

She was a little late, and postponing the paying of the 
chemist until her return, she hurried on to the Pension 
Werner. On her way up-stairs (the pension occupying 
the second floor of the house) she was met by Frau Wer- 
ner herself descending in bonnet and cloak. That excel- 
lent woman immediately stopped at the sight of Elisa- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 323 

beth, whom she had not before met since her arrival in 
Venice. 

“ Miss Elisabeth ! ” she cried ; “ but how grown ! how 
verschonert ! My dear Miss Elisabeth — excuse me, my dear 
young lady, for calling you by that name, but I have never 
been able to compel myself to think of you by any other 
— what a pleasure to see you again ! And the good Ba- 
roness ; you know all she has done for me ? It is owing to 
her that I am here now, and prospering as never I have 
done before. Not that all is smooth ; ah, no ! Mine is a kind 
of life that is never without its trials ; still, I have much to be 
thankful for. And so you are in Venice, my dear Miss 
Elisabeth ! Why, it seems but yesterday that you left us. 
Ah ! the years pass like a day at my age, but otherwise 
with you at yours, quite otherwise. I dare say it seems 
to you many yesterdays since you went away ; and so, 
indeed, it must be — so grown, so verschonerty 

‘Wes ; it seems a great many,” said Elisabeth. “ I am 
so glad to have met you, dear Frau Werner. Flow are the 
children ? ” 

“ Ah, grown and verschdfiert too, if a mother may say so,” 
said the good woman. “Yes; they are a real joy to me. 
The eldest — you remember her ? She is now eleven years 
old, and plays on the piano like a little angel ; soon, too, 
she will assist me with the housekeeping. But I must not, 
dear Miss Elisabeth keep you waiting here on the stairs. 
You go, perhaps, to attend this meeting got up by Mrs. 
Sparrow ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Elisabeth ; “it is in the salon, Frau Werner, 
is it not ? ” 

“ Yes, yes ! ” said Frau Werner with a profound sigh ; 
“it is in the salon ; and that is why I am going out. Mrs. 
Sparrow would have it there — Mrs. Cleaver would have it 
not. I leave it, at last, to these two ladies to arrange it 
their own way. I had, unfortunately — I speak frankly to 
you, dear young lady ; and after all, when a woman has to 
earn her own living, she has to consider everything, all 
round — unfortunately, then, I say, I acceded, before Mrs. 
Cleaver came, to Mrs. Sparrow’s request Of the two I 
should prefer to favor Mrs. Cleaver. Why not ? These 
ladies, both of them, strike me as having little that is ami- 
able or agreeable in their disposition ; but it is Mrs. 
Cleaver who pays. It is natural, then, that I should pre- 
fer to do what she wishes. Mrs. Sparrow cannot be 
brought to see this ; and hence scenes, quarrels, words. 


324 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


At last I run away ; I refuse to compromise myself further. 
Adieu, dear young lady ! Ah, if all were like what you 

were — so easily pleased, so happy . Forgive me for 

the words ; but we used to smile sometimes, to see how 
happy you looked in those last months. Ah, that was a 
beautiful time ; to be so at once beloved and betrothed — 
that comes like that but once in a life.*' 

Frau Werner pursued her way in the happy conscious- 
ness of the best-chosen sentiments and phrases, whilst 
Elisabeth, mounting the stairs to the second floor, was 
presently ushered through the dining-room into the sitting- 
room, which wore an air of such chastened festivity as be- 
fitted the occasion. The tables had been removed or 
cleared out of the way, the closed blinds shut out sunlight 
and sky, and twenty or thirty seriously-disposed ladies, 
gathered together with some difficulty from the frivolities 
of the outer world, were giving their attention to a young 
woman who, occupying the centre of the floor, was devot- 
ing herself, with frequent gestures and many acute varia- 
tions of the voice, to the recital and interpretation of a 
piece of poetry. Elisabeth, dismayed at finding herself so 
late, sank into the seat nearest the curtain that divided the 
two rooms (the curtain was drawn back to-day), not caring 
to look up or challenge attention, until a subdued clap- 
ping of hands, a discreet murmur, informed her that the 
immediate recitation was ended. Then, raising her eyes, 
she had an odd, momentary sensation of being at Schloss- 
berg. Some faint hint, perhaps, of Frau Werner's person- 
ality in the draping of the curtains and the choice of orna- 
ments may have contributed to this ; but chiefly, no doubt, 
the character of the meeting and the presence of Mrs. 
Sparrow and her daughter. Mrs. Sparrow was arrayed 
splendidly in the well-remembered brown silk — it had 
been turned and remodelled more tiian once since those 
days — and the no less well-remembered parure en suite of 
Honiton lace and topazes ; and Mary at her side, in a 
tight-fitting light-blue gown, looked, as her father had 
said, a little stouter, also a little more impassive, but not a 
day older than three years ago. Elizabeth had not seen 
her before ; and with the awful space of the room between 
them — Mrs. Sparrow, seated in state on a sofa at the farther 
end, threw an austerity into her glance as it sought Elisa- 
beth that assured my heroine she was in disgrace — with 
that alarming space, I say, Elisabeth could not follow the 
impulse that would have taken her at once to her old 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


325 


companion’s side to say how much she cared to see her 
again. She had not greatly cared for her in the old days, 
but it was different now. Mary had, for her, the charm of 
the irrecoverable past, and she had the charm of contrast. 
No one could be more unlike Dulcie ! The dull honest 
spark in her gray-blue eye seemed the friendliest gleam to 
Elisabeth ; it kindled an immediate train of thought and 
memory ; and absorbed in this — she was glad to be ab- 
sorbed out of all consciousness of the young lady’s recitals ; 
they made her wish to sink through the floor — she might 
have remained almost insensible to her immediate sur- 
roundings until the close of the meeting, but for a slight 
though exciting disturbance that occurred halfway through. 
Mr. Sparrow had not appeared at the commencement. 
The first part was his wife’s concern, he had said ; his 
wife was acquainted with a young lady wdio had a gift for 
recitation ; people, he understood, were always ready to 
listen to such things ; and as they liked to have some re- 
turn for their money, they might as well have that. He 
had left the arrangements to his wife, however, intimating 
that he himself should merely come in at the end and say 
a few words. When, therefore, amid a faint murmur of 
the discreet applause, the young lady had retired to a seat, 
Mr. Sparrow appeared through a side-door ; and taking 
up his station behind a small table, addressed himself to 
his speech. He had hardly uttered the first words, how- 
ever, when there occurred that slight disturbance of which 
I have spoken, and which effectually aroused Elisabeth’s 
attention. 

The disturbance, it may at once be stated, was a per- 
fectly legitimate one, being no other than the entrance of 
Mrs. Cleaver, who, as she had frequently stated, had as 
much right to occupy the salon, with a view to her own 
uses, as any other member of the pension. Neither was 
her entrance in itself obtrusive ; but her appearance witli 
a large work-bag on her arm, a newspaper and two or 
three books in her hand, her Skye terrier Pinch at her 
heels, indicated so complete a detachment from the ob- 
ject of the meeting as to divert the general attention to 
herself. Every head was turned as she stood for a moment 
in the doorway surveying the company through a double 
eyeglass. Mr. Sparrow himself faltered and came to a 
dead stop. Pinch, who (it may be remembered) was a 
most friendly dog, profited by the pause. He understood 
nothing of what was going on ; but so many people sitting 


326 THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 

round the room meant cakes in the background, he felt 
sure ; and immediately squatting, he put up his front-paws 
to beg, emitting a series of short sharp barks that called 
forth an irrepressible giggle from some more giddy mem- 
ber of the meeting. Mrs. Cleaver, who had the courage 
of her opinions, and a great deal of dignity for a small 
woman who quarrelled a good deal with her neighbors, 
continued to survey the scene in silence for a moment, 
then crossed the room and rang the bell with decision. It 
ever after remained a cause of acute remorse to Mr. Spar- 
row that he completely lost his presence of mind and stood 
waiting in silent suspense, like everyone else, to see what 
the unspeakable Mrs. Cleaver would do next. It was Mrs. 
Sparrow’s alert wit that put an end to a scene that might 
have its humorous side, but that practically was extremely 
disconcerting. She rose in her seat, and addressed her 
daughter. 

Mary, dear,” she said, ‘‘we will sing a hymn. Go to 
the piano and play ‘ From Greenland’s icy mountains.’ ” 

The docile Mary, striking her vigorous chords, relieved 
the tension of the moment, and the united voices of the 
company drowned the orders presently given by Mrs. 
Cleaver to the girl who answered the bell. What they 
were could only be inferred by the return of the robust 
German maiden dragging one of the tables banished by 
Mrs. Sparrow’s orders from the salon, which she proceeded 
to place according to Mrs. Cleaver’s directions. That lady, 
having arranged on it her books, her work-bag, and her 
newspaper, withdrew with the same calmness with which 
she had entered, followed by the intelligent Pinch, who 
had left off begging when the singing began, and with a 
piteous howl, hidden himself under tlie nearest chair. 

To whomsoever tliis unseemly episode might have af- 
forded entertainment, it was certainly not to Elisabeth. 
She was horrified, she was scandalized by the scene ; she 
could not imagine how people could behave after so rude 
a fashion. She wished she had never come to the meet- 
ing ; she would have liked to slip away at once ; but after 
offending Mrs. Sparrow by arriving late, she did not ven- 
ture to leave before the conclusion of the proceedings. 
Mrs. Cleaver meanwhile having disappeared, Mr. Sparrow 
recovered his composure, and addressed the audience with 
his few words ; and the matter might presently have passed 
from Elisabeth’s mind, but for the fresh reminiscences 
evoked by Mrs, Cleaver, She remembered her now ; cer- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 327 

tainly, she thought, she remembered her, and how rude 
she and Mrs. Sparrow used to be to each other. At seven- 
teen the proceedings of one's elders are not of imperative 
interest except as they affect one’s self, and Elisabeth, with 
her books and her new life — that luminous dawn of a new 
life — had given the slightest possible heed to the amenities 
passing between Mrs. Cleaver and Mrs. Sparrow. Still, 
she did vaguely recall them now ; the more so that, as she 
all at once remembered — her remembrances might have 
travelled further but for that — it was Mrs. Cleaver’s de- 
parture that had left vacant a room for Mr. Holland 
at the Pension Werner. Elisabeth’s thoughts passed 
from Mrs. Cleaver to Mr. Holland’s arrival in Schlossberg, 
to the days that followed, to all that had fallen since. The 
room vanished, and Venice and the years between ; she 
was a little schoolgirl again, tripping to and from her 
classes, blotting sheets of paper with long historical essays 
through the long winter evenings by the light of her lamp 
and by her crackling stove, visited by high visions, and 
with an immense, an immeasurable honor and bliss draw- 
ing nearer and nearer every day. She ceased to hear Mr. 
Sparrow’s grating voice (but the harsh, familiar tones filled 
in her dream and made it real) ; those long-past days awoke 
again ; she could see no flaw in them now. One anguish 
they had held, but it had but opened the way to that final 
consummation of bliss — alas ! 

She was suddenly startled from her dream. Mr. Spar- 
row’s address, of which she had not heard one single word, 
was come to an end, and someone was standing in front 
of her, dangling a velvet bag before her eyes. Elisabeth 
was overwhelmed with confusion ; here was the much- 
dreaded collection going on, and it found her half blinded 
by tears and altogether unprepared. In the greatest 
hurry she pulled out her purse, and, turning away her 
face to hide those inopportune tears — but her little net 
veil did that — dropped her two coins into the friendly 
darkness of the bag. It was a bag, to her great relief. 
That miserable little contribution of hers would not betray 
its meagreness by lying open and exposed on a plate ; and 
this trifling fact encouraged Elisabeth so much that in a 
minute she was quite composed and able to cross the 
room to speak to Mrs. Sparrow and Mary. Mrs. Sparrow” 
only nodded, being engaged, bag in hand, in emphasizing 
some point to a lady in black with a round, simple, humor- 
ous face, w^hose daughter^ equally round-faced, had covered 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


328 

herself vvitli confusion but now through her irrepressible 
Miss Sparrow, however, greeted her former 
friend with something that, for her, was not far removed 
from effusion. 

hardly knew you when you came in, Elisabeth,” she 
said ; “you’ve grown taller. Papa says I’ve grown fatter, 
and I think I have. I tried on a dress this morning that 
I had three years ago, and it wouldn’t meet. Mamma 
told papa that you had grown prettier than she ever 
thought you would, but that slie very much feared you 
were not at all sufficiently sensible of the duties and re- 
sponsibilities of a vicar’s wife. She said it was a great 
pity such a position should be wasted on a young creature 
who seemed to care so little for it. You won’t mind my 
telling you, Elisabeth ? Don’t you really care about it ? ” 
About my position ?” said Elisabeth, smiling a little ; 
“I dare say you would occupy it better than I do, Mary.” 

“ Yes,” said Miss Sparrow, placidly; “mamma always 
says I should make an excellent mistress of a parish, now 
she has trained me so carefully, especially if she were there 
to help me. I think I could do it by myself, though, now. 
Perhaps I shall some day ; but it seems a long time to 
wait ; I am very tired of the Pension Werner. Everyone 
is not so lucky as you, Elisabeth. I think you are the 
luckiest girl I ever heard of.” 

Elisabeth was silent for a minute. “ My husband is ill, 
you know,” she said ; “ he has been ill ever since we 
married, and we are a great deal from home. That has 
made it rather difficult for me to do much in the parish.” 

“Mamma says we can always do our duty, however 
difficult it may be, if we only give our mind to it,” said 
Mary. “ She says she will do her duty even by Mrs. 
Cleaver, who is the worst woman she ever knew. Don’t 
you think her a very bad woman, Elisabeth ? Mamma 
says she thinks she will go away if Mrs. Cleaver remains 
here, only she doesn’t know where to go, so I suppose we 
shall stay ; but I think her very disagreeable.” 

“Oh, she is worse !” cried Elisabeth; “I can’t think 
how anyone can behave like that. I am so glad to have 
seen you, Mary, but I am afraid I must go now, as soon 
as I have spoken to your mother. It is getting late.” 

Mrs. Sparrow was still addressing the lady in black, and 
did not interrupt her discourse at Elisabeth’s approach. 
“ A little here, a little there — in our wandering life that 
has to be our motto. We do not expect much ; we know 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


329 


human nature and our fellow-creatures too well for that. 
But every little helps, and we feel it our duty, Mr. Spar- 
row and myself, to bring these higher objects of our ex- 
istence continually before others, especially in so frivolous 
a place as this. Our little gathering this afternoon will 
have satisfied us from that point of view, however small 
its results otherwise. I do not expect much.” 

“Ah, dear Mrs. Sparrow, how right you ared ” her com- 
panion replied. “Yes, that is my motto also; a little 
here a little there. There are so many calls upon one, 
you know, and each one seems to have an equal claim.” 

“ Oh, for that,” said Mrs. Sparrow, rather resenting this 
application of her motto, “ I cannot altogether agree with 
you, dear Mrs. Grey. I think one cannot discriminate too 
carefully which call has the highest claim. To my mind 
none can be loftier than the erection, wherever it is prac- 
ticable, of fitting places of worship, for our ministrations 
to our wandering flocks, too apt to wander, alas ! when 
away from our own beloved land. But I need not enlarge 
upon what Mr. Sparrow has already said with so much 
eloquence and justice. I only trust his words may have 
produced some practical results through their effect on the 
minds of our little assembly.” 

Mrs. Sparrow, as she spoke, glancing round the room, 
and seeing that almost everyone was gone, ventured so far 
to forego her dignity as to take a peep into the bag she 
held in her hand. She looked up again, beaming. 

“ Better than I had thought,” she said, complacently, 
“ Gold, I see, someone has given. No more than is right, 
of course, considering the object of the meeting ; still, it 
doesn’t often happen. You would be surprised, my dear 
Mrs. Grey, to know how often it does not happen.” 

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Grey, “that would not surprise me 
at all — not at all. I only wonder how anyone ever has 
gold to give. There are so many claims you know ! But 
I am very pleased on your account, I am sure, and I 
wish your church every success. Some day I shall hope 
to hear Mr. Sparrow preach in it. Amy and I are always 
talking of going to Schlossberg, and now we shall have a 
real inducement. Come, Amy ; we must go.” 

Mrs. Sparrow looked after her rather doubtfully. “ It is 
strange,” she said, turning to Elisabeth, “how little real 
earnestness is to be met with in the world. Even you, my 
dear Elisabeth ” 

“I w^s late^ I know,” §aid Elisabeth, hurriedlj^ fore^* 


330 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


Stalling Mrs. Sparrow’s lecture. “ I am very sorry, dear 
Mrs. Sparrow, but I couldn’t help it. And I must go now ; 
I have an errand to do on my way home. But I will come 
soon to see you, and I’m glad you are satisfied with your 
collection.” 

^‘Satisfied I will not say, my dear ; but it is better than 
I had expected. And at least we have gained a moral 
victory, my dear Elisabeth. Mrs. Cleaver, I think^ will not 
venture on such behaviour again ; indeed, she will hardly, 
I think, venture to remain in the house after what has oc- 
curred. Unfortunately, she has no sense of propriety or 
delicacy, and Frau Werner gives way to her in everything. 
If you must go, rny dear, I will not detain you. You will 
tell your husband from me how successful our meeting 
has been in every way. It will please him to hear about 
it, I feel sure.” 


CHAPTER XXXII, 

WHAT FIRST ENSUED. 

Mr. Holland, as his wife was well aware, had spoken 
truly in saying he had no objection to being left alone. A 
taste for solitude, it may be held, tells all in favor of a 
man ; it argues a good conscience, for instance, and an in- 
dependent habit of mind ; and it may be conceded at once 
that in Mr. Holland’s case the hours in which he was 
thrown on his own resources were spent, as a rule, not un- 
profitably, from his own point of view. It would not be 
too much, perhaps, to say that his best liours, now that 
his active life was sadly closed, were those he passed in 
solitude. His marriage had had the irretrievable misfor- 
tune to give him a wife who tended to bring out his worst 
qualities. That such a misfortune must of necessity be 
irretrievable, one need not, speaking generally, assert as a 
principle. But it was almost irretrievable for a man like 
Mr. Holland, broken in health and of a nature too com- 
mon in strain, too narrow in its ideal, to be more than 
vaguely and uneasily conscious of failings that lay outside 
his immediate conception of duty. That conception, as 
may have been gathered from this narrative, withdrew it- 
self within sufficiently strait limits when his wife was in 
question ; since a decent morality in his own conduct (of 
course), a careful supervision of hers, and such supply of 


THE FAILURE OF FLLSABETH. 


331 


her material wants as was indispensable, seemed to him, 
in general, all that need be demanded of a man who had 
had the ill luck to find his wife less to his mind than he 
had hoped. Elisabeth counted for very little in the relig- 
ious meditations that for the most part filled those lonely 
hours when Mr. Holland was at his best. The prospect 
of death, for though he did not consider himself dying — 
he had rallied so often from one and another attack of ill- 
ness — he was aware that his state was a precarious one ; 
the shortcomings of his more strictly spiritual life, the ac- 
count he must render of the flock committed to his charge 
— these were the matters that occupied his conscience and 
his thoughts. But occasionally, rising higher still, he felt 
that he forgave Elisabeth ; not only that, there were even 
moments when he felt she might have something to for- 
give. It was in approaching him after some such moment 
as this, when he allowed a natural kindliness of temper to 
have its way, that Elisabeth had now and again encoun- 
tered those milder words and looks that through all these 
years had kept alive in her the hope of some dawn of hap- 
pier days. But such moments were rare. In general, 
Elisabeth’s appearance jarred upon the sense of peace that 
was to him the foretaste of his heaven. He disliked the 
fits of irritability into which he was occasionally hurried ; 
as a Christian and a clergyman, he felt them to be unbe- 
coming. But this uneasiness of conscience provoked by 
her presence naturally seemed to him more her fault than 
his. He rarely felt irritable with anyone else. 

On the whole, therefore, indispensable as Elisabeth had 
become to him in a hundred unconsidered ways, her occa- 
sional absence was a relief. On this afternoon, however, 
of the meeting at the Pension Werner, he may have found 
it less so than usual ; for one of the fits of restlessness that 
now and then attacked him kept him wandering for a time 
with his feeble, uncertain movements from one room to 
another. He was annoyed at the meeting, annoyed that 
his wife should have gone there, annoyed by the reflection 
— it was not of a kind that often troubled him — that his 
donation toward a brother clergyman’s church had been 
rather shabby. Five francs, after all, might have looked 
better, if a plate were handed round ; on the whole, he 
might have afforded five francs. On the other hand, there 
was the compensating thought that he was three francs 
less out of pocket ; and presently he came round again to 
the point of repenting that he had given anything at all. 


332 THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 

Two francs was always two francs ; and then it was the 
principle of the thing! Mr. Holland by this time found 
himself in a frame of mind in which the unnecessary ex- 
penditure of a halfpenny would have been a serious griev- 
ance. To calm himself, he took out his account books 
and began adding up the week’s accounts. Nothing, as 
he had long since verified by experience, was more sooth- 
ing than the contemplation and adjustment of rows of 
figures. He took the book to his seat by the window, and 
began to institute a comparison, full of interest, between 
tlie cost of housekeeping in Venice and that at Thornton 
Briars. He was engaged in calculating the difference in 
the price of meat — Dulcie’s presence with them in Venice 
rather complicated the problem — when his wife came in. 
He went to the end of the row of figures he had jotted 
down before speaking. 

My dear ” he began then, in a tone of remon- 

strance, laying down his pencil. 

He broke off, arrested by the expression of Elisabeth’s 
face. She looked pale and frightened, and hardly able to 
speak ; he almost thought that she was trembling. Her 
husband looked at her in astonishment. 

What is the matter, Elisabeth ? ” he said. Has any- 
thing happened ?’\’ 

^‘No, nothing — I mean, nothing but what is my own 
fault,” she said. She paused to take a long breath. I am 
so sorry, I don’t know how to tell you,” she went on hur- 
riedly ; “ but when I went to pay the chemist’s bill just 
now I found that I had made a mistake. I put the forty 
francs into the bag at the collection, instead of the two 
francs you gave me. I have only the two francs left.” 

There was a silence. Elisabeth, who had had the live- 
liest prevision of this moment all the way home, felt it was 
quite as bad as she had expected. Her husband was angry, 
and she had a great dread of his anger. It was altogether 
distinct from his moods of irritability, of sarcasm or cold- 
ness. He very rarely showed anger, but when he did 
Elisabeth felt herself confronted by something dull, hard 
and inexorable that had its root deep in his being, from 
which there was no appeal. He said little at first, how- 
ever, on this occasion ; for a minute, indeed, he remained 
perfectly silent, regarding her steadily. “ You are incorrigi- 
bly careless,” he said at last, rising as thougli to leave her. 

“ I know,” said Elisabeth with humility ; “ I mistook the 
money. I can’t think how it happened.” 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


333 


“ It matters nothing to me how it happened,’' he replied ; 
“it concerns me only that the money should be recovered. 
If you can afford to throw away forty francs I cannot. 
You had better return at once to Mrs. Sparrow and ask for 
it back.” 

“ Oh, I couldn’t do that,” said Elisabeth, flushing pain- 
fully. “ Mrs. Sparrow has always been so kind to me, and 
she was so pleased this afternoon because there was more 
money than she expected. I will do anything rather than 
that.” 

Mr. Holland paused half-way to the door. “ You will 
oblige me,” he said, “by doing what I ask. If you com- 
mit an error, the least you can do is to repair it, and what 
I ask of you is perfectly reasonable. You had, in fact, no 
more right to pay away those forty francs than you would 
have to take the money out of my desk for your own pur- 
poses. The one is as dishonest as the other.” 

Elisabeth stood motionless, incapable of reply. The 
words, as from husband to wife, seemed to her so dishon- 
oring that reply was impossible. Mr. Holland went on, 
with some slight relenting in his accent : 

“ Of course, I am aware,” he said, “ that in the present 
instance it was simple carelessness on your part. But there 
is a point at which carelessness may become inexcusable 
in its results, nor can I ascertain that you make any effort 
to improve. The first time I saw you, you had lost your, 
purse ” 

“ Oh, don’t ! ” cried Elisabeth. That episode, through, 
which slie had suffered so cruelly, was one she could not 
bear to have revived ; its contrast and its similarity with 
the present were alike poignant. Mr. Holland went on, 
unmoved : 

“You had lost your purse,” he said, “putting me to very 
considerable inconvenience to repair your negligence. I 
see no reason why I should suffer loss on this occasion. 
You will oblige me by at once writing or going to Mrs. 
Sparrow to explain matters.” 

He moved toward the door as he spoke, but Elisabeth 
detained him. 

“ I don’t think,” she said, trying to speak calmly, ‘‘ that 
I could do that ; it would be impossible for me to do it. 
If you had been at the meeting this afternoon you would 
understand how it is. And we can afford the forty francs,” 
she went on pleadingly. I know it is a great deal of 
money, but it has gone for a good purpose, and it isn’t 


334 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


so much for us to give ” She faltered and stopped be- 

fore the expression of her husband’s eye. “ We can save the 
money,” she went on. “You can take it out of my dress ; 
I will do without anything new for as long as you like. I 
don’t mind what you do, but indeed I couldn’t ask Mrs. 
Sparrow to give it back to me.” 

He said not a word in reply. He simply disengaged his 
arm from the hand she had laid on it and left the room, 
closing the door behind him. Elisabeth sank down into a 
chair. He was angry, and his anger was dreadful to her, 
and the terms on which they lived. She did not see how 
life was to go on, on such terms. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE baroness’s WEDDING-GIFT. 

She was roused from the sort of darkness into which she 
had fallen by the opening of the door. Old Maddalena 
came in and presented her with a card, inscribed with the 
name of Gordon Temple. The signore was waiting out- 
side, the old woman said ; and Elisabeth, passing her 
hand over her eyes to clear away some dimness and dizzi- 
ness, saw a few words written in pencil. Can I see you 
or Robert for one minute ?” they ran. Elisabeth, bewil- 
dered at first by the formality, immediately after perceived 
in it a recognition of the rather strained terms on which 
they had parted the night before. She had been vexed, 
she remembered, by his words ; yes, she had been more 
than vexed. . . . She had hardly known how she felt. 

But all that was like past history to her now. She was 
feeling so unhappy, so miserable, that had ail the world 
combined to recognize the fact, it would have hardly 
seemed unnatural to her. In any case, Elisabeth’s was 
not a disposition to cherish rancor, and she liked Gordon 
better than almost any one she knew. She desired Mad- 
dalena to ask Mr. Temple to come in. 

He entered with less of animation in his manner than 
she had ever seen in him before, and shook hands with her 
in silence. “You wanted to see Robert or me ? ” she 
said. 

“Yes; I have come for one minute only,” he replied. 
“ I have had bad news that obliges me to leave Venice im- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


335 


mediately, and I didn’t want to go witliout telling you my- 
self, and wishing you good-by. My father is very ill.” 

‘‘Your father? Oh, I am sorry — I am sorry !” said 
Elisabeth. 

“ Yes, I knew you would be sorry. I had a letter from 
Emilia this morning telling me he was less well ; and an 
hour ago I had a telegram bidding me come at once. I 
should in any case, I believe, have started this evening, but 
this, of course, decides me. I leave by the evening train.” 

He stood silent for a minute looking out of the window. 

“ It is a great trouble for you,” said Elisabeth at last, 
gently, 

“Yes, it is a great trouble.” He turned to go, and tak- 
ing her hand, shook it again and again ; he seemed hardly 
to know what he did. “You will let Robert know,” he 
said, moving toward the door. “ I can’t wait to see him 
now. I don’t know when I may be in Venice again ; but 
you will hear from us of course — from Emilia or from my- 
self.” 

“ Yes, we shall want to hear,” said Elisabeth. “ Give — 
give my love to your father. I hope you will find •him 
better.” 

“ Thank you, thank you.” He paused a moment with 
his hand on the door. “ I should like to know how Rob- 
ert is — how you are getting on,” he said with some hesita- 
tion. 

“ I will write,” said Elisabeth, simply. 

“ Thank you ; tliat will be very good of you.” He 
seemed about to say something more, but changed his 
mind. The door closed behind him ; he was gone. 

Elisabeth' sat down again in the chair where he had 
found her. Her husband’s uncle, who was nothing to her 
husband, but who had been a good deal to her, was dying ; 
she would never, she felt sure, see or hear from the kind 
old man again. It was a real, an appreciable loss in her 
life ; and Elisabeth was too young, too unused to losses of 
this kind, not to feel it keenly. Death was always strange 
and terrible to her ; no one wanted to die ! Her first im- 
pulse was to go and tell her husband ; but when her hand 
was on the lock of the door into his room, her courage 
failed her. He was probably still angry, and she could 
not face his anger just then. She turned and went round 
to a small room opening out of the bedroom she had been 
about to enter, but at an elevation of two or three steps 
above it, and with a second door communicating with the 


33 ^ 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


large unused bedroom already mentioned, that enabled 
her to make her way round without disturbing her hus- 
band by passing through his apartment. It was a bright 
little room, sparely furnished in white and gold and faded 
blue silk, frescoed and stuccoed, and with one of its two 
windows looking out on the Grand Canal. Elisabeth, 
pleased by its air of gaiety, had appropriated it to her 
own use ; here were her writing-case and her work-basket ; 
liere were such books as she ,had brought with her to 
Venice — Mr. Holland, who seldom read himself, had an 
insurmountable dislike to seeing his wife’s books lying 
about — here she locked away a diary in which she still 
occasionally scribbled. She sat down now in one of the 
stiff white and gold armchairs, turning her back on the 
brightness that streamed in through the open window, and 
set herself hopelessly to think. For awhile she thought 
of Gordon and of his father ; her thoughts followed him 
on his sad journey, and dwelt on the greater sadness that 
probably awaited him at its end ; but presently her mind 
returned to her own troubles, and to the immediate misery 
of those wretched forty francs. What was she to do about 
them ? How procure the money that in the confusion of 
the moment — she understood quite well how it had been 
— she had so heedlessly given away ? It had been unpar- 
donably heedless ; oh, she was ready to own it ! but that 
was not the point ; the point was how to get the money 
back. After all, why should she not go and explain the 
whole matter to Mrs. Sparrow ? It would be simple 
enough, surely — yes, and not unreasonable ; on the whole, 
perhaps, the most straightforward line of action ; only, 
when it came to the point, Elisabeth could not make up 
her mind to do it. It would have been easier had Mrs. 
Sparrow taken it less as a personal matter ; but as it was, 
Elisabeth, remembering the good woman’s exultation over 
those luckless gold pieces, felt that she could no more ask 
for them than she could have asked for the return of some 
gift she had made, on the plea that she had wanted it for 
herself. 

The sentiment might or might not be a just one ; but 
in either case it failed to further the matter in hand, how 
the money was to be procured. Elisabeth felt that her 
husband was terribly in earnest about it ; that he would 
never really forgive her until the forty francs were re- 
placed. She had the conviction also that he wanted to 
punish her, and that her reluctance to apply to Mrs. 


7'HE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


337 


Sparrow had placed the means in his hands. Elisabeth 
did not pause to consider the estimate of her husband’s 
character involved in these convictions ; she simply ac- 
cepted them for practical purposes. But what, after all, 
was she to do ? Her memory, quickened by his reference 
to her long-since lost purse, reverted to Schlossberg and 
that other emergency — so like, so unlike — in which she 
had sold her necklace. But of that resource she could not 
now avail herself. In any case, she would have felt an 
extreme reluctance literally to repeat that dismal little 
episode ; but the necklace was not in Venice. She had 
left it behind her, safely locked up in a drawer at Thorn- 
ton Briars, together with the ring Emilia had given her, 
and other trinkets and valuables that had belonged to her 
mother, for which she had little use in her present life. 
No, she had no property with her of any kind of which she 
could dispose. Paltry as the sum was — it did not appear 
paltry, it may be observed, in Elisabeth’s eyes ; all her 
practical experience of money dated from the beginning 
of her married life, and she had accepted her husband’s 
estimate of such things too literally, not to regard forty 
francs as a serious matter ; but paltry as the sum was, she 
saw no way of procuring it. For a moment she thought 
of applying to Mrs. Sparrow, not for the return of the 
money given for the church, but for a loan of the sum re- 
quired ; a moment later, however, she dismissed that idea 
also ; she was too well acquainted with the poor woman’s 
empty and dolorous purse. Forty francs ! What did they 
not mean to Mrs. Sparrow ? Two new gowns for Mary, 
or her own millinery for the year, or twenty other indis- 
pensible articles. Why, the sum was vast! No, she could 
not borrow it of Mrs. Sparrow. 

A knock at the door interrupted her. The day had de- 
clined unheeded during these helpless meditations, and 
Maddalena was come to say that supper was ready. Elisa- 
beth started up ; she must meet her husband now; and 
thinking of their tete-a-tete meal, she wished for once that 
Dulcie were with them. She quietly opened the door of 
the room adjoining that she was in, and entered. The 
evening was drawing toward night and the room was 
almost dark. In the dusk Elisabeth saw her husband 
resting on the sofa, and went up to him with noiseless 
steps. He was not asleep ; and as at her approach he 
turned his eyes on her, she perceived that the anger had 
not gone out of them. 

22 


33 ^ 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


“ Supper is ready, Robert,” she said. 

He made no answer of any kind, only looked away. 
Elisabeth went on : 

‘‘ Your cousin Gordon has been here,” she said. “ He 
came in for a minute only — he couldn’t wait to see you ; 
but he begged me to tell you that he has had news that 
his father is very ill, and that he is starting for Schloss- 
berg this evening.” 

Mr. Holland looked round again. 

‘^My uncle is ill?” he said. 

‘‘Yes; very ill. I fear — I think Mr. Temple thinks — 
that he is dying.” 

“ He is an old man,” her husband answered. He half 
rose, and drew a knitted coverlet more closely over his 
feet. “You had better take your supper without me,” he 
said ; “ I am not feeling well this evening. I prefer to be 
alone.” 

“You are not feeling so well ?” said Elisabeth, in in- 
stant alarm. “What will you have, Robert? You will 
have some supper, surely?” 

“ I think not,” he replied. “ If I require anything later 
on, I will let Maddalena know.” 

He turned from her more decidedly as he finished speak- 
ing. Elisabeth moved away with a dismayed sinking of 
the heart. Nothing ever tried her more in their married 
life than her husband’s occasional fits of obstinacy in the 
treatment of himself. They reduced her to helplessness. 
Words were of no effect, as she had long since learned ; 
they only prolonged a mood that one cause or another had 
induced. She went away into the dining-room, a some- 
what shadowy apartment, looking out, like the anteroom, 
upon the waters of the side-canal. It was quite dark in 
here, and Maddalena had lighted and set on the supper- 
table a frugal lamp, that dimly illuminated the gloom and 
Mr. Holland’s empty chair, which stood facing his wife’s 
as with a sad intention of reproach. Elisabeth had a 
healthy young appetite, and this rather sorry spectacle 
failed to take it away. But it worked upon her, neverthe- 
less. She ate her supper with no knowledge of what she 
ate ; that vacant seat seemed to set her completely in the 
wrong, and yet, her husband being what he was, she did 
not see how she was to get right again ; from which it 
will be perceived that Mr. Holland and his wife had, at 
least, one problem in common. 

All at once a ray of light fell upon this dark question of 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


339 


the forty francs. Elisabeth’s mind, straying hither and 
thither, had more than once turned toward the Baroness. 
If Madame von Leuvvine were in Venice, the poor child 
thought, her difficulty would at once be solved ; she would 
have no hesitation in going to that trusted friend ; from 
her she could have borrowed the money without scruple. 
But the Baroness was in Vienna ; two or three days must 
of necessity elapse before she could receive an answer to 
any appeal, and Elisabeth did not see how she was to go 
on living through more days such as this had been. Still, 
she had nearly made up her mind to write, when she all 
at once remembered that long ago wedding present of a 
sealed packet, that was to help her in an emergency, 
should such ever arise. Elisabeth had often thought of it 
since, of course ; it had accompanied her wherever she 
went in the pocket of her little travelling writing-case ; 
and as time went on, she had understood better than at 
first the Baroness’s intention in giving it to her. Once or 
twice even she had thought of opening it ; but the imme- 
diate difficulty that suggested the idea passed, and she 
kept it still as a sort of trust, only to be betrayed in a 
moment of extreme emergency. The moment, it seemed 
to her, had arrived ; the emergency, indeed, was small, 
but it was extreme. Elisabeth measured its extremity by 
the immense relief she felt in the possibility of the matter 
being so readily settled. She sprang up from the supper- 
table — she had finished supper, and had been gazing 
drearily before her at the circle of light that illuminated 
the tablecloth and the remains of her repast — and taking 
the lamp in her hand, paused only to ascertain from Mad- 
delena that her husband had ordered some supper to be 
taken to him in his room, and made her way back again 
to the bright little salotiino. Her writing-case was there, 
in the table drawer ; now that she had made up her mind 
to open the packet, she could not rest till she had done so. 

She took out the sealed envelope and opened it, not 
without a certain emotion, but without any very ardent curi- 
osity. Whatever money it might contain, twenty, ten, five 
pounds even, it would certainly be more than forty francs ; 
and forty francs was the immediate business on hand. A ’ 
slip of paper first met her eye, with a few lines on it in the 
Baroness’s handwriting. “ I send the enclosed money, 
my dear child,” the words ran, in the form of notes 
rather than in that of a check, both because you may find 
it convenient to have a larger or smaller sum to jrour hand^ 


340 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


and because, should you happen to be in a foreign town, 
there might be a certain difficulty and delay, especially 
after a lapse of time, in getting a check cashed. At any 
rate, should you read this, it will prove that my careless 
Elisabeth has at least so far kept an old friend’s wedding- 
gift in safety ; and the old friend can only desire that it 
may be as useful and profitable to her as she wishes it 
to be now as she writes these lines.” Behind this slip 
of paper was a rather thick bundle of Bank of England 
notes ; and Elisabeth, loosening and turning them over, 
recognized to her surprise, to her stupefaction, that they 
amounted in all to not less than a hundred pounds. 

Her first, absolutely her first impulse on recovering from 
that moment of astonishment, was to gather up the notes 
and carry them to her husband. How pleased he would 
be ; that was her first thought ; her second, that the pleas- 
ure they would give might do away with all further diffi- 
culty about the forty francs. But half-way to the door 
she paused. Shut her eyes as she would, Elisabeth knew 
her husband by heart by this time ; and she could foresee, 
with a prevision that had the force and clearness of 
actuality, how he would look, what he would say, when 
she took him the money. He would express no pleasure, 
not in the mood he was in now ; he would question her 
with an austerity slie had learned to dread. How had she 
come by the money ? Why had she kept it hidden all this 
time ? In what view had the Baroness made such a gift 
on such conditions? Her husband’s latent animosity 
toward his family, and almost everyone connected with it, 
was a sentiment she always dreaded to excite, especially 
in regard to the Baroness ; the Baroness had shown her- 
self so true a friend. No, Elisabeth could not face it all 
at that moment ; she would postpone it till to-morrow. 
She would take one of the five-pound notes (the money 
was in notes of varying value) as early as she could to 
some money-changer ; and when she had given her hus- 
band the forty francs, and set that matter straight, she 
would tell him about the rest. After all, it was a hundred 
pounds. He could hardly fail to be content ! 


THE FAIL [/EE OF ELISABETH, 


341 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

MRS. CLEAVER REPEATS HERSELF. 

It was not until the afternoon of the day following that 
Elisabeth could go in search of change for her note. Her 
husband was feeling less well in the morning ; and though 
he made no demand on her services, she was unwilling to 
leave him until after their early dinner. He asked her no 
questions, but the air of grav^e displeasure that he main- 
tained showed that he appreciated the fact that she had 
not as yet made any attempt to communicate with Mrs. 
Sparrow. Elisabeth had no idea of the acute annoyance 
he was really suffering in the loss of the forty francs. She 
was well aware that he was angry, an anger that had so 
far softened itself as to take the aspect of a measured 
severity; but she regarded the anger as chiefly didactic, 
not precisely assumed, but directed against herself as a 
culprit, and only indirectly connected with the loss 
of the money. She preferred so to regard it ; it would 
have been, even now, almost incredible to her, it would 
certainly have been liorribly painful to realize, that so 
small a loss rankled in her husband’s mind to a degree to 
interfere with his sleep, and disturb the feeble conditions 
of his health. As a fact, however, it fretted Mr. Holland 
exceedingly ; he could not get over it, as the saying is, 
and the fact that the money was gone for a purpose of 
which he had expressed a distinct disapproval made the 
matter worse. It was only by a great effort of self-com- 
mand that he maintained the dignity of an attitude of silent 
displeasure toward his wife ; mentally, his attitude was so 
far from dignified ! For his anger had left him, like a con- 
valescent patient after a fever, in a mood of extreme 
crossness. Had he betrayed this irritation, it is probable 
that Elisabeth, in an impulse to soothe and cheer him, 
would have at once related to him the history of Madame 
von Leuwine’s gift ; any betrayal of weakness on his part 
might have made that possible to her. But his austere 
silence, his austere displeasure, daunted her now as on the 
previous evening. She would wait, she again thought, 
until the immediate cause of that displeasure was removed. 

She presently started on her errand, taking with her the 
five-pound note. There was a certain money-changer, 


342 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


whose bureau she had noticed more than once in one of 
the narrow streets near San Moise ; and for so small a sum 
she would go there, she thought, rather than to the bank- 
er’s where she had once been to change some circular 
notes for her husband ; it appeared to her less formidable. 
The matter, it need not be said, was simple enough ; Elisa- 
beth received the change for her note in Italian money, 
and was on her way home, feeling more cheerful than she 
had done in many previous hours, when she suddenly real- 
lized that she had received all her change in notes. A 
dislike to the Italian paper-money was a sort of monomania 
with Mr. Holland ; he had imbibed somewhere the idea 
that it involved a serious risk of loss, and Elisabeth look- 
ing now at her collection of shabby scraps of paper, felt 
that it would never do to take these to her husband ; she 
would only vex him again. She ran back quickly to the 
money-changer’s; but the man preferring, after the fash- 
ion of his kind, to keep his gold, declared that he had none 
in the house. The notes were perfectly good, he assured 
her with a smile ; was she about to leave Italy ? No ? Then 
it made not the slightest difference ; he transacted all his 
business in paper-money. Elisabeth, baffled, left the shop, 
and slowly retraced her steps. She must displease her 
husband again, it seemed ; apparently there was no help 
for that ! And then it occurred to her that she might go 
to Mrs. Sparrow and ask her to return the gold in ex- 
change for the notes ; there could certainly be no harm 
in her doing that, since the notes were in common use, 
it would appear. Elisabeth was very much of a child still 
in her perplexities, in her narrow vision of the small ex- 
igencies and difficulties of life ; and she felt something of 
a child’s pleasure in the thought that she would be able to 
take back to her husband the very same coins he had 
given her. 

She turned once more, hurrying her steps now till she 
reached the Pension Werner; and running quickly up 
the stairs, rang the bell. Mrs. Sparrow was at home, 
she was told by the untidy damsel who opened the door ; 
and Elisabeth, conducted by the girl, passed into the din- 
ing-room, where the table was set and the cloth laid as 
usual for the next succeeding meal. The dining-room was 
empty, but the curtain dividing it from the adjoining salon 
was half-drawn back, and through the opening came the 
sound of voices — a voice raised in acid remonstrance, an- 
other following in lamentable reply. Elisabeth had no 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


343 


mind to find herself introduced into the midst of a discus- 
sion ; she drew back, and taking a card from her card- 
case — it happened to be one of her husband’s ; her case 
was nearly empty, she found — scribbled a line on the back, 
begging to see Mrs. Sparrow for one moment, and gave it 
to the maid. The girl vanished from the room to seek 
Mrs. Sparrow, it was to be presumed, in some other part 
of the house, and Elisabeth remained alone. The raised 
voices still went on ; she could hear every word that was 
said ; and though she could not from where she stood see 
the speakers, one of them, she felt immediately persuaded, 
was Mrs. Cleaver. It was, in fact, that lady who was 
speaking in tones of unimpassioned and concentrated acid- 
ity, like the flattest of small beer turned hopelessly sour. 

Of one thing, Frau Werner, you will at least have the 
goodness to inform me,” she was saying to that woman of 
many troubles ; ‘Mo I, or do I not, in this house occupy 
the best room and pay the best prices for myself and my 
dog and my maid ?” 

“Ah! my best Frau Generalinn, who questions it, who 
disputes it?” said poor Frau Werner ; “if my house con- 
tains a room better than yours, let me at least know it ; it 
is at your service.” 

“When I disapprove of my room you may be certain 
you will know it ; let us keep to the point, Frau Werner, 
if you please ! And the point is whether in paying nine 
francs a day for my pension — a sum I consider exor- 
bitant — the use of this public salon is included or not. I 
ask, Frau Werner, is it included ?” 

“Surely, surely,” said Frau Werner, soothingly; “it is 
understood, without further words, that the public salon 
is open to every member of the pension.” 

“ Oh 1 it is open, is it ? I am glad to be informed of it, 
Frau Werner! Perhaps, then, I may be permitted to in- 
quire further on what grounds certain individuals, \vhose 
conduct to you and to everyone else I should be sorry to 
characterize, are permitted to take possession of the room 
to the exclusion of other people, who at least pay their 
way honestly and are not dependent on your charity for 
their daily food ? ” 

“Ah, dear heaven!” said the poor woman, “but we 
talked all this over yesterday, dear madam — and the day 
before, and again the day before that. I was wrong, I 
admit it ; it shall not occur again. But it is done now; 
that cannot be altered.” 


344 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


It was at this moment that the little maid despatched by 
Elisabeth returned, and, card still in hand, wandered into 
the salon, seeking vaguely, as it seemed, Mrs. Sparrow 
there or elsewhere. The girl, as she passed, pushed back 
the curtain, revealing what Elisabeth from where she 
stood had been unable to see before — Mr. Sparrow seated 
by the window, book in hand, and quite unmoved by the 
torrent of words that flowed by him. The torrent, indeed, 
flowed on, regardless of his presence ; or perhaps indeed, 
not uninspired by it. 

Oh, it cannot be altered — it cannot be altered ! ” Mrs. 
Cleaver observed, in answer to Frau Werner’s last remark ; 
“ but other things can be altered. My arrangements can 
be altered, Frau Werner; and I may as well tell you at 
once that, if those very objectionable people remain in 
your pension — Well, what is that ?” (this to the girl, who, 
with Elisabeth’s card in her hand, was standing open- 
mouthed, confronted by this discussion, before Mrs. Clea- 
ver and Frau Werner). ‘‘ Kindly give me that card, since 
it is for me apparently. The Reverend Robert Holland — 
Oh, indeed! that swindling parson has turned up again 
then, and will be coming here, no doubt. Parsons always 
hang together, I believe ; and I am not at all surprised 
that he should come ; but I arn surprised, Frau Werner, 
that out of regard to your own reputation and your chil- 
dren you should not see fit to forbid your house to swind- 
lers, and persons who are on familiar terms with swindlers. 
Take the card, if you please ; it is not for me, thank good- 
ness 1 You will not find me associating with such per- 
sons as those.” 

“ Merciful heavens 1 ” said the poor woman, exasperated ; 
‘‘of what and of whom are you speaking, best' Frau 
Generalinn ? No, this is too much ; mine is at least an 
lionest house, and has none but honest people, in it. As 
for Mr. Holland, I don’t know of what you are talking : 
he is a saint, poor gentleman, a perfect saint ! He was in 
my house for months, and I am proud to think of it ; he 
only left me to marry the dearest and most charming 
young lady, my dear Miss Elisabeth. You must certainly 
mean some other person, dear madam ; and permit me, at 
least, to take this card to Mrs. Sparrow. It is for her, I 
see ; but she is lying down, I believe, with a bad head- 
ache ; I doubt if Mr. Holland will be able to see her. Mr. 

Sparrow, perhaps ” She glanced at the window ; but 

Mr. Sparrow' sat, immovably reading, and she turned again 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


345 


to the maid: Is the gentleman waiting, Maria?” she 
said. 

“ It’s a lady,” answered the girl ; “ she is waiting in the 
room there.” 

' ‘‘A lady!” cried Frau Werner, realizing the situation. 

It must be my dear Miss Elisabeth,” she declared sink- 
ing her voice, “ My dear Mrs. Holland, that is, as I ought 
to call her now, Mr. Holland’s wife. She must have heard 
every word we have been saying ; and to think what has 
been said 1 ” 

“ If I mean some other person, it doesn’t matter what we 
have said if she is fifty times his wife,” Mrs. Cleaver re- 
plied, not lowering her voice in the least ; “ but for my 
part, I don’t believe there are two Reverend Robert FIol- 
lands, and I have no doubt this is tlie man I mean. He 
might be in prison at this moment for embezzling money 
belonging to a charity in the parish of St.John Martyr, 
where I had the misfortune to reside when he was curate. 
The rector, a poor weak man, hushed up the matter ; / 
sliould not have hushed it up, you may be sure, if I had 
not unluckily been leaving London at that very moment. 
Why, some of my money went into that man’s pocket ! 
The Reverend Robert Holland, indeed — very reverend, 
certainly 1 A common swindler, I say ; I have known 
what to think of parsons ever since. And I maintain, and 
shall maintain to my dying day, that people who associate 
with such a man are as bad as the man himself ; and 
I should like to know what Mr. Sparrow has to say to 
that.”* 

I have to say, ma’am,” said Mr. Sparrow, shutting his 
book with a startling abruptness, ‘Hhat the whole story 
is a lie, as venomous as the person who invented or who 
propagates it, and one upon which I shall not waste a 
word.” He put his volume in his pocket, and passed into 
the outer room. 

‘‘How do you do, Mrs. Holland?” he said in a loud 
voice. “ My wife has a headache to-day, and can’t see 
you, I’m afraid. How’s Holland ? I’ll come and see him 
soon, and meantime you can tell him from me that he’s 
uncommonly lucky to be where he is, out of sight and 
hearing of insolent old women who spend their time in 
slandering their betters.” 

There was a certain kindly intention toward Elisabeth 
in this speech, rough as it was ; but she could not at once 
respond, She was standing by the table in the dining- 


346 THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 

room ; she had heard every word that had been said. She 
was quite aware it was her husband who was being spoken 
of, and she felt as if she had heard nothing at all ; she 
simply felt as if the sudden rapid beating of her pulses 
would suffocate her. And yet she had all at once remem- 
bered, with extreme clearness, having heard almost the 
same words spoken before, to be met by the same response ; 
that gave her a strange feeling of having known all about 
it for years. Her immediate concern, however, was to 
betray no consciousness of any kind. She forced her 
mind back, at Mr. Sparrow’s words, to the errand on 
which she was come, and the effort gave her manner more 
composure than she always had at command. 

‘‘I am sorry I cannot see Mrs. Sparrow,” she said ; ‘H 
wanted to ask her to do me a kindness. Yesterday I put 
two twenty-franc pieces into the collecting-bag, and I 
wanted to know whether I might have back the gold in 
exchange for these notes. My husband dislikes the Italian 
paper-money — that is what I ask. But it is of no real con- 
sequence, of course.” 

Elisabeth handed the notes to Mr. Sparrow as she spoke. 
Certainly, at that dizzy moment, the matter appeared to 
her of less than no consequence ; but, having come about 
the business, the easiest course was to go through with it. 
The clergyman took the notes from her hand. 

“It was you, was it,” said he, “who put in that gold ? 
Mrs. Sparrow was wondering who it could be ; we didn’t 
think of you. What’s wrong with the notes ? They’re as 
good as anything else, here, you know. Still, if Holland 
has the notion, I see no objection to changing them. I’ll 
send the money in to you.” 

He left the room. Elisabeth sat down by the table, and 
leaning her head on her hand, waited. She waited for 
some five or ten minutes. Silence had fallen in the ad- 
joining apartment. She had seen Frau Werner pass in 
hasty flight while she was speaking to Mr. Sparrow ; but 
Mrs. Cleaver, as she was conscious, was still there, though 
she could not see her. A blind passion suddenly rose in 
Elisabeth’s heart; she would have liked to sweep Mrs. 
Cleaver from the room, from her path, from her conscious* 
ness, for ever. But she did not move ; she sat still by the 
table, and wished Mr. Sparrow would return. The day 
was stifling, she thought. She looked through the window 
at the old red-brick facade opposite peeling in the intense 
sunlight^ at a boat sliding silently by on tlie narrow can^l, 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 347 

She wished Mr. Sparrow would come back ; she longed to 
escape into the open air. 

Mr. Sparrow did not come back ; but in a few minutes 
the maid reappeared with a small packet, and a card on 
which Mrs. Sparrow had written a few wavering lines in 
pencil. 

Thank you, my dear Elisabeth,” they ran, ‘‘ for your 
and your excellent husband’s contribution. My headache 
makes me quite incapable to-day, but I hope to thank you 
in person before long. It is no more than I might have 
been justified. in expecting; but, alas ! expectations are so 
often thwarted. We will speak more of this when I see 
you.” 

Elisabeth put the card into her pocket, the money into 
her purse, and turned to leave the house ; but as she crossed 
the entry she became conscious of an immense desire to 
know. A profound and terrible doubt was in her heart ; 
she did not believe what she had lieard — not fora moment 
— and as little could she fling off the words and proclaim 
them a lie, as Mr. Sparrow had done; the doubt was too 
terrible and profound. With her hand on the lock of the 
front-door, she turned and went back to the salon. A 
simple question and answer — a question that need reveal 
nothing — would decide the matter, it seemed to her ; but 
when she stood within the doorway her heart failed. Mrs. 
Cleaver was still there, seated by a small table ; and a hor- 
ror of the woman, and a terror of the answer she might 
give, came over Elisabeth. She could not face it ; she 
turned to go once more. . . . No, she could not go, not 
with this uncertainty to haunt her henceforward for ever; 
above and before all, she must know. She walked quickly 
up to Mrs. Cleaver. 

Excuse me ” she began. Her voice failed her ; 

she gave a deep sigh, and steadied her voice. Could 
you tell me,” she said, ‘Hhe name of the rector of whom 
you were speaking just now ? ” 

Mrs. Cleaver was reading a newspaper ; she laid it down, 
took off her glasses, and scanned Elisabeth from head to 
foot with an incredible impertinence. 

‘‘I have not, I believe, the pleasure of your acquaint- 
ance,” she said, “ and I am not aware that I mentioned any 
rector’s name. His name was Brudenel, if that matters ; 
but I was not speaking of him, I was speaking of his 
curate, Robert Holland, who ought to have been, but was 
not, put in prison for appropriating the funds of a public 


34 ^ 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


charity. The whole affair was a scandal to the Church ; 
but nothing that parsons do surprises me in these days. 
And now, as I have to go out, you will perhaps allow me 
to wish you good-afternoon.” 

She rose as she spoke, and Elisabeth left the room. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THROUGH A NIGHT. 

Elisabeth walked home quickly from the Pension Wer- 
ner ; to move quickly, to stifle thought, seemed to her the 
first essential just then. But when she had reached the 
old palazzo, and had begun to mount the wide staircase, 
her courage gave way ; a sick trembling seized her, she 
sat down on one of the steps to recover. It was tlie same 
feeling, intensified, that she had had years ago when Mr. 
Holland told her she was not honest ; she felt as though a 
black line of infamy had been drawn across her life. It 
was not that in these few minutes she had thought the 
matter out, or passed a reasoned judgment on her hus- 
band ; it was already enough that in her heart she felt no 
power to repel such words as a baseless calumny, that she 
could believe it not impossible they should be true. She 
sat still for a few minutes, her hands tightly clasped round 
her knees, till the trembling fit had subsided ; the staircase 
was vast and empty ; there was no one to disturb her. But 
she could not go on sitting there ; her husband would be 
expecting her, and presently she rose and went slowly on 
her way up-stairs to the second floor. 

She opened the sitting-room door. Mr. Holland was in 
his armchair by the window ; and seeing him seated there 
looking as usual, Elisabeth felt a momentary recoil, a 
movement of repulsion ; for that moment her husband’s 
familiar form and features seemed the mere mask of an 
odious and ignoble deception ; it was, perhaps, the worst 
moment she could ever know. She stifled the feeling in- 
stantly, however ; indeed, it passed of itself ; and her im- 
mediate effort now, as before, was directed to appearing as 
if nothing had happened. It could never occur to her to 
speak to Mr. Holland of what she had heard; nothing 
could have been so impossible to her. She took off her 
hat and gloves as she had the habit of doing when she 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


349 


came in, and taking the two napoleons from her purse 
went up to her husband. 

Here are the forty francs, Robert,” she said 
gently. 

He turned his head — he had not looked round before — 
and held out his hand. 

“ You have been to Mrs. Sparrow, then ? ” he said. 

“ Yes, I have been,” said Elisabeth. She turned away 
and went up to the tea-table to pour out the tea Madda- 
lena had just brought in. This was the moment in which she 
had meant to tell her husband about the Baroness’s money, 
and now she could not do it. She felt weak, almost trem- 
bling, as from some physical shock ; the effort to give the 
necessary explanations was beyond her. She must tell 
him at some other time. 

“Well, that was right, my dear,” he said in a tone of 
more cordial approbation than he often used ; “ I am glad 
you should have attended to my wishes.” He was pleased, 
as Elisabeth had thought beforehand he would be. She 
brought liim a cup of tea, and stood silent for a moment 
at his side. 

“ No, it was not right,” she said then with an effort ; “ not 
as you think, at least. I didn’t do as you wished, and possi- 
bly you might not approve of what I have done. But I 
cannot explain now. I am very tired, and I have a head- 
ache. I think I must go and lie down for a little while. I 
will tell Maddalena to come to you presently, in case you 
should want anything.” 

She left the room without waiting for an answer. Her 
headache was no mere excuse. Fortunately for herself 
and for her husband, Elisabeth had excellent health ; but 
she suffered occasionally from severe nervous headache, 
and her hurried walk in the hot sun and the emotions of 
the last hour had brought one on now. She went away 
into the vast unused bedroom at the back, where it was 
dark and cool and silent ; she piled some pillows on the 
bed, where a gilt crown surmounted faded green hangings, 
and lying down, closed her eyes. She was glad that the in- 
creasingseverity of the pain presently shut out thought; she 
was still more glad when Maddalena came, an hour or two 
later, to say supper was ready, that she was unable to raise 
her head from the pillow. To find herself alone with her 
husband was w’hat she dreaded just then more than any- 
thing in the world. 

Later on still, the pain subsided a little, and she fell into 


350 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


a confused kind of sleep. She was roused — it would have 
aroused her from deeper slumbers — by the sound of Mr. 
Holland’s slow and feeble step crossing the floor, and the 
sense that he was standing at her side. 

My dear, you are feeling better, I hope,” he said. ‘‘ It 
is past nine, and I am thinking of going to bed.” 

“ Oh, do you want me to read to you ?” said Elisabeth, 
half-starting up. Her husband, as she knew, had an in- 
valid’s dislike to any illness but his own ; she never felt 
that he quite believed in her headaches. 

Not at all ; on no account,” he said, laying a detaining 
hand on her shoulder ; ‘‘but I would suggest your going 
to bed also ; you would surely be more comfortable than 
here, if your head is really so bad.” 

“Oh, thank you ; I will go presently,” said Elisabeth, 
sinking back on the pillows, too much confused by pain 
to argue the point. To be left quiet — that was all she de- 
manded then. Mr. Holland stood beside her in silence for 
a minute, then left the room. She heard the door close, 
and presently passed into a profounder sleep. When she 
awoke again she had the sense that it was far on into the 
night. The room was dimly illuminated by a night-lamp 
— Maddalena, before going to bed, had come in with a cup 
of tea and some biscuits, and finding her mistress quiet, 
had left them on a table at her side, together with the 
lamp. Elisabeth raised herself from her pillow and looked 
at her watch. It was between one and two in the morn- 
ing. The pain in her head was almost gone. She drank 
the tea brought by Maddalena ; it roused her completely, 
and left her, as is often the case in the reaction from 
severe headache, with a sort of lightness and clearness of 
spirit. She felt no confusion ; she knew at once how she 
came to be sleeping in that room — all that had happened, 
all that she had to think about. The moment for thought 
was come- now ; Elisabeth sat up on the bed, clasping her 
hands round her knees ; and in the profound silence of 
the night, in the stillness of the dimly-lighted, closely- 
shuttered room, she gave herself up to thought. 

Afterward, looking back on this time, Elisabetli won- 
dered a little at herself that she should not, to begin with, 
have rejected the story she had heard as incredible ; but 
she never did ; she never really doubted after she heard 
Mr. Brudenel’s name. The faith in her husband, to which 
she had so passionately clung, had been too profoundly 
undermined ; it had fallen hopelessly at the first touch ; 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


351 


she believed, as we believe blindly, inevitably in death, 
though the loved one should have been living and speak- 
ing a minute before. No ; the story was not incredible. 
. . . And yet Elisabeth might have withheld belief, she 

would certainly have withheld so prompt a belief but for 
that last day in London, and her interview with Mr. Bru- 
denel, and all that had followed ; the sort of shock — she 
remembered it so clearly — that her husband had seemed 
to feel on hearing his old rector’s name ; and his inex- 
plicable change of plan, and his hurried departure from 
town. Elisabeth, sitting there in the silence and darkness 
of the night, thought it all out. She went from word to 
word, from look to look ; and dark as night, heavy as lead, 
conviction slowly settled upon her and left her dismayed. 
She sat there trembling again with a sick and dull horror 
she could not overcome. Mrs. Cleaver’s words came to 
her mind, each one stinging her with its own crude and 
dishonoring hardness. Crime and dishonor had seemed 
words of so remote a meaning until now, and now they 
were come close to her — they had entered into her very 
life. She dropped her head upon her knees ; she crouched 
under the weight of that intolerable burthen. 

Presently she started up, stung by some insufferable 
thought of the coming day ; and slipping off the bed, she 
began to walk up and down the room. How was she to 
meet the coming day, and her husband, and their life in 
common ? She walked up and down quickly and more 
quickly, till the wide spaces of the room and the dimly- 
lighted darkness seemed to close upon her and stifle her 
like prison walls. She thought of her husband sleeping 
there close by : a sudden impulse to see him seized her. 
She crossed the floor, and opening the door that communi- 
cated with his room, went in cautiously. The door opened 
behind his bed, and she entered with noiseless step, fear- 
ing nothing so much as to find him awake ; but, as she 
immediately perceived, he was sleeping quietly. A night- 
lamp was burning in this room also, and by its light Elisa- 
beth could see him lying with his head raised high, his 
pale and suffering face relieved against the white pillows, 
his thin, blue-veined hand spread out on an open prayer- 
book that lay beside .him on the counterpane. Elisabeth 
stood gazing at him with an indescribable emotion ; strange 
to see him lying there, to feel that she held his secret, to 
know him unconscious of her knowledge. And then with 
a swift reaction, a passionate compunction and tenderness. 


352 


THE FAIL [/RE OF ELISABETH 


she said to herself that there was no secret, that he was 
her husband whom she loved and honored, that all that 
she had heard was false, and it was monstrous of her to 
think otherwise. But the reaction did not last ; she would 
have given the world that it should, but it did not. She 
stood gazing at him till all the familiar lines in his worn 
face seemed to take a new meaning, and reveal to her a 
dishonored past. She recoiled a step, and then came near 
to him again. No ; she felt no repulsion now — not as she 
had done before ; rather something of pity, a dawning 
tenderness and compassion. His pale face, as he lay there 
all unconscious of her presence and of her hard thoughts, 
was a reproach to her ; she had once believed in him so 
entirely ; and for the moment that shattered belief seemed 
to Elisabeth a worse injury to her husband than to her- 
self. 

He made some slight movement, and, terrified lest he 
should awake and see her there, she slipped noiselessly 
back into the adjoining room and began to walk up and 
down again. Thought succeeded thought ; she could not 
rest. Now she turned on herself in passionate protest 
against her own credulity, and then again Mrs. Cleaver’s 
words came one by one into her mind : she remembered 
how she had said that Robert Holland ought to be in 
prison. Oh ! that was dreadful ; only to have heard it 
was dreadful. Elisabeth flung herself on her knees by the 
bed, burying her face, hiding it from the light of the dim 
night-lamp. She shuddered away from the words as from 
a scorching flame ; a sense of dishonor clung to her ; she 
did not know how to bear it. Yet through it all the bitter- 
ness toward her husband had passed away ; instead, there 
was a growing tenderness, a sympathy, a sense of fellow- 
ship strange to herself. There he lay in the adjoining 
room sleeping quietly, with his long-buried past forgotten, 
unconscious of those cruel words, while she suifered for 
him. . . . Elisabeth hid her face more closely in the 

counterpane, stretching out her arms and clasped hands 
across the bed. She remained so for a long while not 
thinking much, trembling a little, convulsively, from time 
to time, but growing calmer by degrees. A deep and inti- 
mate feeling had passed into her heart, relieving the terri- 
ble tension of the last hour. Strangely, as she knelt there, 
a consciousness grew upon her that she had never had be- 
fore, of the immense weight of sin resting on the world ; 
strangely she understood, as she could never have under- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 353 

Stood till now, how men and women could fly from the 
world to fast and weep and pray, and so to expiate their 
own and their fellow-creatures’ sin. That — she felt it for 
the moment — might be tlie way, or some sucli way, for 
iier also ; that might be the ray of light upon the form- 
less darkness that closed her round. Elisabetli ceased to 
tremble ; slie remained quite still for a long time. In this 
darkest hour her life had known, something sacred had 
touched her heart and made life still possible to her ; she 
had found what was perhaps, to one of her temperament, 
the only escape from an intolerable despair. 

She rose at last, pushing back her disordered hair from 
her face. Lines of light were piercing through the cracks 
of the heavy shutters that closed the windows ; the night 
was ended. She opened the door leading into her small 
sitting-room, and passed from the darkened chamber in 
which she had spent the night, into the light and glow of 
the new awakening day. It was awaking to the clang of 
early church bells, to the shrill shriek of the swift circling 
swallows as they darted hither and thither, to a golden 
light on the white dome of the Salute, where it rose op- 
posite against the fresh and cloudless blue, and shone re- 
flected line by line below in the still unruffled surface of 
the great canal. Elisabeth turned heartsick from the 
sight ; she wished they had never come to Venice ; she 
thought she never wished to look on Venice again. Bet- 
ter even the chill dulness of the gray house in England ; 
and then the old homeless feeling of her childhood came 
over her, when she would willingly have wept for home, 
and knew no home for which to weep. She looked again 
from the casement, and wondered at her own want of joy 
in what was beautiful. That, at least, had never failed her 
before ; it was tragic to her, it measured her great loss to 
herself, that it should do so now. 

She sat down in one of the white and gold armchairs, 
and began to think what she could do. What could 
she do ? To do something — that was become her passion- 
ate desire ; that was the final result of those poignant 
hours of vigil. The past was not twelve or fourteen years 
back for her ; it was new and living ; and to do something 
in adjustment of its wrong seemed to Elisabeth, just then, 
all that was left to her in life. Anything rather than to 
sit still and acquiesce with folded hands ; and then it oc- 
curred to her quite simply that she might pay back the 
money. Elisabeth dropped her head upon her hands, and 

23 


354 


THE FA IE [/EE OF ELISABETH, 


paused on this idea ; her head was still weak and aching ; 
and though it seemed to herself her power of thought had 
never been more free and clear, she was, in fact, morbidly 
excited, prompt to move to any extreme. She paused on 
her idea, until it took complete possession of her mind. 
She remembered tlie Baroness’s money, and felt as if 
Providence itself had sent it to help her in this strait ; this, 
then, was the end that it was meant to serve ! She would 
send it to Mr. Brudenel — that was what she thought — and 
if it were not enough, she would never cease from work- 
ing and saving until the whole was paid. She could at least 
do that ; and the thought was a sort of salvation to her. 
It created an immediate drama in which to go on living 
in this vast wreck of life ; it was an aspiration to satisfy ; 
it united her, in a sense, with her husband, in the moment 
when their lives seemed most hopelessly severed. It did 
not occur to her that the money might have been repaid ; 
that was not a side of the question that could arrest her 
attention just then. She drew her writing-case toward her ; 
she would write to Mr. Brudenel that very minute, she 
thought ; that was the urgent matter in hand. Had Elisa- 
beth been older, wiser, more experienced, even had she 
been more herself, she might not have done what she did ; 
she would at least not have done it in that way. But she 
was not old, nor wise, nor experienced ; and she was 
struggling for sheer breath in a strange and mortal coil of 
agony. 

She opened her writing-case to engage at once in her 
task, but then she sat a long time looking vaguely before 
her, considering what sh'e should say ; she did not know 
how to put what she had to say. It would have been im- 
possible for her to write a word that should seem to cast 
a reproach on her husband ; and only the confidence with 
which Mr. Brudenel had inspired her on the one occasion 
that she had seen him, enabled her, perhaps, to write at 
all. The letter, when it was finislied at last, consisted of a 
few words only, and these she wrote impulsively, hurry- 
ing them together until they were almost illegible ; nor 
could she ever after clearly recall what they had been. 
She only knew they had been guarded, that to one in ig- 
norance they would reveal nothing, to one instructed they 
would convey her meaning ; then folding the letter quickly 
together, without reading it through, she made it into a 
packet with the bank notes, put the whole into a tliick en- 
velope, stamped and sealed it, and directed it for the post. 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


355 


The whole world was awake by the time she had finish- 
ed, and presently she went away into the dressing-room, to 
change her dress and make herself ready for the coming day. 
She felt strangely forlorn as she came back into the little 
salottino ; her mood of exaltation was fallen dead ; it seemed 
hours ago that the night had ended, and yet here was all 
the weight of the day before her still. She took up her 
letter, and went away into the kitchen to give it at once to 
Maddalena to post ; she could not bear to see it lying there. 
(Only some time afterward she remembered that the letter 
ought to have been registered ; and then she felt that she 
did not care. Better that it should take its chance, than 
be guided by any further touch from her hand.) Madda- 
lena was stirring about, boiling the water, clattering her 
pots and pans. She was fond of Elisabeth, who gave lit- 
tle trouble, and said shy kind things to her in her broken 
Italian. She asked after her headache, and poured her out 
a large cup of colfee. 

“ You look to need it more this morning than the sig- 
nore,” she said. 

Elisabeth took the coffee, and drank it. She often had 
her breakfast so, standing in the kitchen, while Madda- 
lena prepared a tray for her to carry in to Mr. Holland. 
The day’s routine was begun again. She had thought, a 
few hours back, that she did not quite knowhow she was to 
go on living ; but, as a fact, there is nothing so impossible as 
not to go on living so long as outward circumstances re- 
main unaltered. The stage-scenery provided by life is a con- 
stant element, wliose stability no human being is willing to 
disturb ; the last extremity, the last desolation, is reached 
when the order of things breaks away and the alien ele- 
ments rush in. Elisabeth took the breakfast-tray present- 
ly, and went away with it to her husband’s room. Outside 
the door she stood still for a few minutes, unable to make 
up her mind to enter. She dreaded seeing him ; she trem- 
bled at the thought, with a mingled shame and terror. 
That she should know his past, and he be ignorant of her 
knowledge, that was the thought that daunted her ; it was 
like a crime. If it had been possible to tell him everything 
— but that was not possible ; no, that was not possible. 
She went in at last, strangely, with a new perception of 
indifferent things, like a person entering an accustomed 
room after a long illness ; and going up to the bed, began 
to arrange his breakfast as usual. But she could not look 
at him or greet him ; she felt like a criminal in his pres- 


356 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


ence. Something of all she had gone through in the night, 
of the forlorn dismay that filled her heart, must surely, she 
thought, be written in her face. But Mr. Holland was at 
no time very observant, and he had the habitual self-pre- 
occupation of an invalid. 

“ I hope you feel better this morning, my dear/’ he said, 
with a languid indifference to any answer she might make ; 
“you look better, I think. I wish, my dear, you would 
speak to Maddalena again about making so much toast in 
tile morning. I don’t eat it, and it is only wasted.” 

“1 will tell lier,” said Elisabeth, in a low voice. She 
turned away, and began arranging one or two things about 
the room. In a minute her husband spoke again. 

“You didn’t pay that bill at the chemist’s yesterday, 
Elisabeth ? ” 

“ No,” said Elisabeth ; “ I brought the money back to you.” 

“Yes; and that was quite right, my dear; but it had 
better be paid at once, on account of those reductions I 
spoke of. If it is delayed too long, they will refuse to 
make them. Are you going out this morning ? There is 
that letter for Richards to be posted, and you had better 
take the bill and pay it ; you will find it with the money 
in that small drawer. And I would beg of you again, Elisa- 
beth, to be more careful when you are entrusted with 
money ; you are far too careless with such matters.” 

He spoke not unkindly, in his grave deliberate tones, 
but Elisabeth could not answer. She left the room quieter, 
but more heartsick than when she entered it ; the last trace 
of exaltation that had sustained her had died away before 
the petty details that engaged her husband’s mind. Later 
in the morning she went out, to pay the chemist’s bill and 
post the letter to Mr. Richards. As this last passed into 
the box, she remembered that other letter gone irrevo- 
cably from her hands that morning. A keen pang of re- 
morse and apprehension seized her ; she felt all at once as 
though she had denounced her liusband. What if it should 
ever come to his knowledge ! Oh, he must never know — 
she must never let him know ; she must surely have done 
wrong in writing it, or she would not fear his knowing it 
so much. And yet in a moment she was glad she had written 
it ; for deep below every other motive lay the hope that 
Mr. Brudenel’s answer might prove to be a refutation of 
the whole story. His answer was, in any case, a point of 
suspense in the future. Nothing need be held final until 
it came. 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


357 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

SOME EMPTY DAYS. 

Elisabeth was dismayed by her trouble ; she did not know 
what to do with it. It is one thing in a moment of exal- 
tation to feel strong to bear and suffer ; it is another to go 
on living through the ordinary hours from which grief has 
estranged us. That night Elisabeth wept long and pas- 
sionately. She had not wept before, and it was not the 
miserable story she had heard that brought the tears now ; 
it was some passing kindly expression from her husband. 
She had been reading the evening Psalms to him, as she 
often did after he was in bed ; and here and there some 
chance expression in that great outcry of the human soul 
toward the Invisible had touched her own sick heart, and 
made her voice tremble. This and her pale face — perhaps, 
too, some familiar and sacred word touching him also — 
moved Mr. Holland to a moment of compunction. He was 
silent after she had finished reading, but wlien she rose to 
re-arrange his pillows before leaving him he held out his 
hand to her. 

‘‘ My dear,” lie said, ‘‘you look a little tired to-night; 
you must rest. I am not insensible to your attentions, 
Elisabeth, even if I don’t always speak of them, and al- 
though you may think me over-particular occasionally, 
my dear.” 

“ Oh ! ” cried Elisabeth, disengaging her hand. She 
covered her face with her hands, and escaped from the 
room. In the little salottino she flung herself down and 
broke into sobs, violent, rending, at first, subsiding pres- 
ently into despairing weeping. Those few reluctant 
friendly words had come too late. Only the other day they 
might have filled her with happiness ; to-night they had 
come too late. Never again — she said it to herself — could 
she see her husband as she had once seen him ; not one 
thin illusion hung now between herself and him. It was 
not the dreary history fallen in those years before she had 
even known his name ; that might or might not be true — 
the inevitable reaction had come, and Elisabeth had de- 
clared passionately to herself it could not be true — not 
that, but the sordid tale of their married life, its deficien- 
cies, its meannesses, its commonness, its vulgarities, re- 


35S 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


peated itself in fatal clearness to her mind ; and with it 
arose a profound scorn for the man whose nature had so 
written itself upon her most intimate experience. Her 
belief in him was laid waste ; she felt it like a slur cast on 
her own nature that such belief had ever been possible to 
lier. Elisabeth sprang to her feet at the thought, stung 
by an intolerable pang. Life was an insult of fate ; the 
scorn she felt impelled to cast on another recoiled on her 
own head. 

But continued scorn toward the man who was her hus- 
band, and whom she had so greatly loved, was not possible 
to a nature like Elizabeth's. The religious sentiment that 
lay deep at the foundation of her life revolted against that, 
and her need of an ideal ; she could not live without an 
ideal. As her sobs and tears subsided, her mind turned 
to the pity and tenderness that had moved her the pre- 
vious night. Yes, she could be tender, she could be loyal 
to her husband — that still remained to her ; yes, and the 
acceptance of his wrong-doing, and the will to expiate it 
by her own suffering. There was an element of falseness 
in this conclusion that must, of necessity, vitiate it ulti- 
mately ; but it was the best Elisabeth could do with the 
matter then ; it was, indeed, as has been said, the only es- 
cape from despair possible, perhaps, to one of her tempera- 
ment. Two smaller troubles haunted her through the day. 
One of these was the dread of seeing and hearing more of 
Mrs. Cleaver — worse still, the possibility that Mrs. Cleaver's 
story might find hearers to give it credence. Of tliis fear, 
however, she was relieved the following morning, when, 
liaving occasion to go out on some errand, she met Frau 
Werner. The good woman stopped instantly with both 
hands extended. 

“Ah, how pleasant this is!" she cried. “Now, always 
when I go out, I may have the hope of meeting my dear 
Miss Elisabeth. But that, after all, does not content me ; 
not yet, dearest young lady, have I had the chance to talk 
with you as I should like. You must come to me in quiet 
some afternoon and take coffee with me in my little room. 
And I can promise you that you shall no more be annoyed 
by the presence of Mrs. Cleaver. She is gone." 

“ She is gone ? " said Elisabeth. 

“Yes, she is gone; and I may tell you in confidence, 
dear young lady, that whatever the loss to myself, I am 
glad of it — yes I am glad of it. There are tilings, after 
all, that cannot be listened to ; there are scenes that cannot 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


359 


be put up with, one way or another, that had to finish. 
No, the twelve francs a day for herself and her maid did 
not pay me for that, even though I may find it hard to let 
my rooms again now that the heat has begun to set in. 
She made me another scene, dear Miss Elisabeth, when she 
had packed her boxes — she packed them the same evening 
and left yesterday morning — and all on account of that 
poor family Sparrow. To be quite frank — with you, 
dear young lady, I may say these things — I do not greatly 
like Mr. Sparrow ; he is a little — a little difficult sometimes, 
also perhaps his wife; no, they are not all that is most 
harmonious in a household, and a loss to me sometimes — 
I cannot deny that they are sometimes a loss. But still 
everything that is most excellent and respectable ; and Mrs. 
Cleaver wanted me to turn them into the street — abso- 
lutely into the street. ‘There are my trunks,' she said 
to me, ‘ packed and locked, and there is the family Spar- 
row ; one or the other go to-morrow morning. Which 
shall it be?’ Ah, then, indeed, my patience gave way; 
I think sometimes I have not enough patience for my 
position and for my duty ; there are things I cannot 
bring myself to support. ‘ But go, go, go,’ I said, ‘ and 
the sooner the better.’ So I said, and she slammed the 
door in my face. This morning she went, and I suppose 
I shall never see her again. Well, I dare say it is better 
so ; but my best room is empty, and eighty-four francs a 
weekd^st to me. Ah, dear lady, if I had but you and that 
good saint your husband with me again, that is what I 
should like.” 

The other trouble that had haunted Elisabeth was the 
fear that her husband would question her as to where she 
had procured the forty francs ; she did not know what she 
should say if he did. But to her relief, not less to her 
surprise, neither then nor on the following days did he 
make any allusion to the subject. She could not suppose 
him to have forgotten it ; it would be altogether unlike 
him to do so ; and presently she felt grateful for what she 
imagined might be a wish to spare her embarrassment. 
She would have felt less grateful had she known the real 
cause of Mr. Holland’s silence. Certainly he had not 
forgotten the matter, nor the words she had spoken in 
regard to it. He had felt some mystery hidden beneath 
these ; and in turning them over in his mind, he could 
conceive only one explanation for them, and for the air of 
making a desperate confession she had unconsciously worn 


360 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


in the effort to escape his approval. He recalled that 
long-past iitcident of the turquoise necklace ; and sup- 
posed that, in her unwillingness to follow out his wishes 
and demand back the money from Mrs. Sparrow, Elisabeth 
might have parted with some trinket. If that were so, he 
wished neither to say nor to hear anything about it. She 
might expect him to buy the trinket back, as the necklace 
had been repurchased by his sister. Nothing could be 
further from his intention ; in fact, the loss (if he surmised 
rightly) would be a just punishment inflicted on herself by 
his wife, and he had no desire to interfere with that. Af- 
ter all, he had the money, that was the essential ; the 
rest did not concern him. 

In this hidden drama of Elisabeth’s life, a drama which, 
if she had but known it — but she did not ; her grief had 
all the loneliness that makes the despair of the young — 
was being played out in a thousand forms more or less 
acute in the world around her, there came a brief lull. 
No one can go on living at extreme tension ; if a blow 
does not kill, the sufferer survives for the uses of common 
life. The next few days passed quietly enough. Had the 
grave enclosed her, Elisabeth, indeed, could hardly have 
felt more forlorn, more indifferent to outward things, more 
strange to herself ; but as regarded her husband, the habit 
of silence that had long since grown up between them, 
and the routine monotony of their invalid life, made the 
days pass more easily than might otherwise have been 
possible. Mr. Holland, too, was gentler in manner than 
was often the case. Though he would for no considera- 
tion have permitted his wife to know it, he was so really 
and increasingly dependent on her for comfort that their 
hours of estrangement were becoming painful to him. 
He demanded of her one thing only, as the proper attitude 
for a wife, that she should be obedient and not critical ; 
and Elisabeth had no desire in these days to be critical. 
Criticism had done its work ; she knew every word it had 
to say. She only wanted to be good to her husband ; and 
looking at his pale and suffering face, it did not always 
seem so hard. But Elisabeth was young ; and the strain 
of the secret she had surprised, and the trouble of it, 
were hard to bear. Sometimes she thought she could not 
bear it ; that she must speak, cry aloud, put an end at 
any cost— the cost would be terrible, she knew — to the 
concealment that was horrible to her. Only, when it 
came to the point, she always found it impossible. Fin- 


THE EAiJMRR OF EJJSABETH. 361 

ally her mind fixed itself on Mr. Brudenel’s answer to her 
letter. 

On the fourth or fifth day, however, the sort of silence 
that liad fallen upon their life was broken into. The post 
brought two letters ; one for Mr. Holland, one for Elisa- 
beth. This last was from Gordon Temple : 

‘‘ Dear Mrs. Holland," he wrote. 

“ My father died last night, some four hours after my ar- 
rival. He knew me when I came in, but could not speak, 
and soon after he became unconscious. That was best, as 
it spared him any further suffering. You loved him, I 
know, and will understand what the loss means to me. 

On looking tlirough his papers to-day, I find a memo- 
randum directing that certain books shall be given to you. 
You must let me know what you would like done with 
them. It might be best, I suppose, to forward them 
straight to Thornton Briars. I expect to be in Venice 
again before long, but hardly venture to hope that I shall 
find you still there, as it may be three weeks or more 
before I can get away from Schlossberg. Emilia, on the 
other liand, you may probably see almost immediately. 
She wishes to see Robert ; and I myself have urged her 
to go, as the change will be good for her. She was much 
attached to my father — I can never forget her great kind- 
ness and goodness to him — and his death has broken her 
down a good deal. 

“ My kind remembrances to Robert. I trust the air of 
Venice still continues to agree with him. 

“ Always sincerely yours, 

“ Gordon Temple." 

Elisabeth read this letter, and a mingled sorrow and self- 
reproach overcame her. In these last days she had seemed 
able to think of nothing outside her own life and its trou- 
bles ; and meanwhile her old friend had been dying ; he 
was dead. The kind and good old man ! She took up 
the letter presently, and went to tell her husband, who had 
not yet left his room. He received her with an air of 
cheerfulness that disconcerted her. 

“My dear," he said, “ I have just had a letter from Dul- 
cie ; she will be back to-morrow. You will see that her 
room is ready.” 

“Yes," said Elisabeth. In the profound trouble that 
had fallen upon her, it should make small difference, she 


36^ 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


would have thought, who came or went, and yet her heart 
sank a little at the news. I have had a letter from your 
cousin Gordon, Robert,” she said, after a minute’s pause, 
“ His father is dead. He died the same night that Mr. 
Temple reached Schlossberg.” 

“ Ah, well ! he was an old man,” said Mr. Holland ; up- 
wards of eighty, I should think. It was only to be ex- 
pected.” He was silent for a minute. ‘‘ Dulcie has en- 
joyed herself greatly, in spite of the heat,” he went on, 
glancing down at the letter he held in his hand. “Her 
friends want her to go on with them to the Engadine, but 
she prefers, she says, to return to Venice. She is a young 
girl with an enviable capacity for making and retaining 
friendships.” 

If the words were intended as a challenge to his wife, 
they failed of their effect. Elisabeth had no heart to dis- 
cuss Dulcie then. She sat looking drearily before her, 
turning Gordon Temple’s letter over in her hand. Her 
husband fixed his eyes on it. 

“That is Gordon’s letter?” he said. “Allow me to see 
it, if you please.” 

She gave him the letter, not without fear of some ex- 
pression of displeasure at the prospect of his sister’s ar- 
rival. He read it without immediate comment, however, 
leaning back in his armchair when he had finished, still 
holding it spread out before him on his knee. In a mo- 
ment he read it through again. 

“ What,” he inquired, “ are these books of which Gordon 
speaks ? ” 

“ I have no idea,” said Elisabeth. “ They had better, I 
suppose, be sent straight to Thornton Briars.” - 

“ It would be well first to ascertain what they are, and 
whether they are worth the carriage,” Mr. Holland replied ; 
“ the expense of forwarding a case of books would prob- 
ably be considerable ; and unless I felt sure that Gordon 
were willing to undertake the whole thing, I should cer- 
tainly not choose to have the outlay incurred, if the books 
are not worth it. This is the sort of legacy people are so 
fond of making ; legacies that are of no value to anyone, 
and simply involve trouble and expense.” 

Elisabeth flushed painfully. 

“The books would be of value to me,” she said. “I 
should like to have them. And as for the trouble and ex- 
pense, your cousin Gordon, I am sure ” She stopped 

short. 


THE FAIL C/EE OF ELISABETH. 363 

Mr. Holland looked at her, and looked away again. 

will write to Gordon myself,” lie said then; ‘‘and 
you had better write to Emilia, my dear, and say that we 
thank her for her intention of coming to Venice on our 
account, but that, as we shall probably be leaving in a 
week, we are afraid we shall not have the pleasure of see- 
ing much of her. It would be a pity that she should make 
the journey under a misconception.” 

“We leave Venice in a week?” said Elisabeth, looking 
up. 

“Probably. Have you any objection to make, my 
dear ? ” 

“ No ; oh no ! ” said Elisabeth ; “it makes no difference 
to me, where I am ; why should it ? But the air of Venice 
agrees so well with you, I should have been glad if we 
could have stayed on until the weather becomes too hot.” 

“ You would like to stay for another month, perhaps ?” 
said Mr. Holland, glancing again at the letter that lay on 
his knee, and smoothing it out. He folded the letter and 
put it in his pocket. 

“ I don't care for myself,” said Elisabeth, puzzled by his 
tone, but without the glimmer of a perception of his 
thought. That her husband should feel even an incipient 
jealousy of Gordon Temple lay altogether outside her 
range of ideas. “No, I would as soon be at Thornton 
Briars as here; what does it matter?” She sat silently 
despondent for a moment, her head dropped upon her 
hands. “If you are really going to write to Mr. Temple 
about the books,” she said, looking up again, “ I should 
like to enclose a note to him.” 

“You wish to write to him? I see no necessity, my 
dear,” said her husband ; “ I can say everything that is 
proper and civil for both of us. You can send any further 
message you please in your letter to Emilia.” 

Elisabeth was again silent for a minute. She could 
have imagined no reason why she should not write to 
Gordon Temple — was too intimately acquainted, indeed, 
with her husband’s obstinate insistence on trifles when the 
humor took him to consider the point seriously one way 
or the other. But one effect of the events of the last few 
days — though one of which she was completely uncon- 
scious — had been to give her a larger courage in confront- 
ing him. 

“ I think I ought to write to your cousin,” she said ; “ I 
was very fond of his father — I think you must know that. 


3^4 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


Robert ; he was always so good to me.” Her voice trem- 
bled a little. “ I cannot believe he is really dead — I need 
only write a few words,” she ended, rather incoherently. 

She took a pen and a sheet of note-paper, wrote a dozen 
lines through tears that sho- instantly brushed away, and 
folding the sheet in lialf, passed it across the table to her 
husband. ‘‘You will send it, will you not ?” she said, and 
left the room. 

Mr. Holland read the note, and presently, writing his 
own letter to his cousin, lie enclosed it. There was no 
reason why he should not do so tliat he could have given 
Elisabeth ; but he felt annoyed, chiefly, perhaps, that he 
vaguely perceived a change in his wife’s tone toward him- 
self. He would have found it hard to define ; he felt too 
languid just then to make the attempt to define it ; but he 
dwelt with a certain complacency on the thought that the 
following day would restore him a companion whose atti- 
tude never varied from that of unquestioning and attentive 
admiration. 


CHAPTER XXXVH. 

DULCIE RETURNS. 

If it had seemed beforehand to Elisabeth that an emo- 
tion so absorbing as that which had lately possessed her 
should swallow up all smaller troubles, that life outside 
that great and direct struggle should present by comparison 
few difficulties, she was undeceived on the day that Miss 
Fawcett made her reappearance at the Casa Holland. 

Her heart had sunk a little on hearing of Dulcie’s pro- 
posed return. That was only natural ; she had no cheer- 
ing associations with her name. And yet afterward sh.e 
had thought that she was not sorry. The continual iete-d- 
tHe with her husband, broken only once in these last days 
by a visit from Mr. Sparrow, was becoming a sort of night- 
mare to her. His health even preoccupied her less than 
usual, for she continued to think him much stronger. 
There was nothing to disturb the long hours of silence 
during which a dreary fatality impelled her to read over 
and over again, with increasing clearness of comprehen- 
sion, the history of these last three years. The hours 
stretched themselves out into what seemed to her already 
an eternity of darkness, since the day of her visit to the 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 365 

Pension Werner. The presence of a third person might at 
least help to relieve this heavy strain, though it could not 
take it away. 

But when Dulcie, in fact, reappeared, fair, blooming, 
smiling, delighted with herself and her adventures while 
she was away, still more delighted to find herself, as she 
expressed it, at home again, Elisabeth became aware of a 
sentiment she had not entertained before. Dulcie had a 
not ill-founded confidence in her power to charm other 
people, but she was perfectly aware that she had no power 
to charm Elisabeth ; and she had retaliated with those im- 
pertinences with which one woman can so readily wound 
another. It was the easier for Dulcie that she had long had 
the happy conviction that Elisabeth was jealous of her, and 
the happy certainty tliat she might go a long way in mak- 
ing her uncomfortable without her husband discovering 
or resenting the fact. All this, of course was nothing new 
to Elisabeth ; she had endured it with a mingled impa- 
tience and anger and self-reproach. With Dulcie’s re- 
turn she might know beforehand with some certainty 
what to expect. What she had not known was the pro- 
found feeling, rising from depths unstirred before, that 
Dulcie’*6 conduct had power to arouse. It was hardly to 
be called jealousy ; it was rather a passion of anger at the 
levity and selfishness that could entangle still further the 
difficult relations between herself and her husband — at 
the injustice and indifference with whicli he accepted 
Dulcie’s conduct. What was he to Dulcie or she to him ? 
Elisabeth demanded with a bitterness of which a few days 
since she would have thought herself incapable. In the 
terrible clearness with which she had come to read the 
story of her married life, self-reproach had taken a paler 
hue. Not she, but Dulcie chiefly, was to blame, she told 
herself. She had suffered for her husband ; she had suf- 
fered for him through hours in which guilt and remorse had 
seemed to be her portion because they first were his. 
Those hours were consecrated in her eyes ; they bound 
lier to him by the immense emotion the mere fact that she 
was his wife had roused within her. What had Dulcie to 
do with all that ? What right had she to come between ? 
Elisabeth said nothing, however, at first ; silence was al- 
ways easiest to her ; and she listened almost without speak- 
ing through the long afternoon hours — Miss Fawcett liad 
arrived in time for their early dinner — while the young 
girl, who had a charming flow of chatter when she chose. 


366 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


related her adventures ; and Mr. Holland, leaning back in 
his chair, listened with pleased attention, smiling, and 
smoothing down his mustache. 

But I am talking too much,” Miss Dulcie declared at 
last. Dear Mr. Holland, let me read the newspaper to 
you now ; it will tire you less than my chatter.” 

No, no, my dear ; I like to hear you talk,” said Mr. 
Holland; ‘‘ it amuses me. Elisabeth and I are both rather 
silent, you know, and you talk very well. Never mind the 
newspaper just now. It pleases me to hear what you 
have been doing.” 

It is so kind of you to say so ; I kept a little diary 
whilst away,” said Dulcie ; “ may I read it to you by and 
by ? I think one of my chief pleasures was the thought 
of all I should tell you when I came back — that, and the 
thought that perhaps you missed me a little, as you were 
kind enough to tell me in your letter.” 

I have missed you very much, my dear,” said Mr. Hol- 
land. We have been very dull without you.” 

I am so glad ! ” said Dulcie. I don’t mean that, of 
course,” she added ; but it is nice to think one has 
been missed. It makes one hope one has been of use. You 
must let me be of use again now that I am back. Mrs. 
Holland is looking pale ; she must let me sit with you and 
read to you as I used to do, and then she will be able to go 
out ; I know she likes to be out a great deal.” 

“Ah, well, it is your turn ; it is you who must go out 
now,” said Mr. Holland ; “ you have seen very little of 
Venice yet ; and if we leave, as I propose, in about a week, 
you must make the most of your time.” 

Miss Fawcett was unable to repress a slight movement. 
An immediate return to Thornton Briars offered no attrac- 
tions to her whatever ; she began to wish she had gone on 
with her friends to the Engadine. 

“You leave in a week ? ” she said. 

“Well, I thought of doing so — I thought of it; I 
have hardly decided the point yet,” said Mr. Holland. 
“ You would like to remain longer, my dear ? It is true you 
have not seen much of Venice.” 

“ Oh, no ! ” said Dulcie, recovering herself ; “ I like best 
to do what ever you like, Mr. Holland ; you know I do. 
Only the air of Venice seems to suit you so much better 
than that of Thornton Briars, that it seems a pity not to 
stay as long as possible.” 

“ Ah, that is what my wife says, and there’s something 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


367 


in it, no doubt,” Mr. Holland answered ; ‘‘certainly I be- 
lieve I am better here — not so much stronger, perhaps, as 
better altogether ; and that is the first step, I suppose, to- 
ward gaining strength. Well, w'e must reconsider this 
question of going away, though there are reasons that urge 
me rather strongly in that direction.” 

“Oh, you mustn’t stay on our account,” said Dulcie ; 
“Mrs. Holland wouldn’t like that either. I’m sure; and 
indeed, no one,” she went on, turning to Elisabeth, “ would 
think the air of Venice suits yon. I never saw you look 
so pale before. Fm sure you have been too much con- 
fined to the house since I went away. Has Mr. Temple 
not been again to take you out in his gondola ? ” 

Elisabeth did not immediately reply ; not that she ob- 
jected to the question — she hardly heard it, indeed — but 
simply that she was wishing, with a sort of passionate de- 
spair, that she need never speak to, nor hear Dulcie speak 
again. Her husband answered for her. 

“ My cousin Gordon is at Schlossberg,” he said, coldly. 
“ He has just lost his father.” 

“ Oh, indeed ! ” cried Dulcie, glancing from one to the 
other. “ Then you have both of you ” 

“You have both of you had someone to miss,” was what 
had been in her mind to say, but she checked herself in 
some confusion ; that, at least, was a thing she could not 
risk saying. Nevertheless, she was delighted with her 
own shrewdness in making the observation. This young 
girl, who had practically left her village for the first time the 
other day, had an immense curiosity as to the histories and 
secrets of the great world that she was entering. Her se- 
cluded life notwithstanding, she had managed to procure and 
read a not inconsiderable number of French novels, together 
with other literature not primarily intended for her pe- 
rusal, that she had culled here and there from various book- 
shelves. Not always understanding very well what it was 
about, the instincts with which every young girl, innocent 
or the reverse, maybe supposed to be provided, instructed 
her sufficiently that a good deal of it was about what was 
bad ; and this young girl had the idea (not unreasonable 
under the circumstances) tliat what was bad was probably 
highly entertaining, or at the very least highly interesting. 
Her excuse may be that she was, in reality, so far, toler- 
ably ignorant in her wish to play with fire, and might still 
have the grace to shrink from kindling any considerable 
flame. In the meantime $he had, as has been intimated. 


368 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


an immense curiosity, which, joined to a shrewd intelli- 
gence, had already carried her far in the weeks since she 
left home. She had long since divined that Elisabeth was 
jealous of her friendship with Mr. Holland ; it had occurred 
to her within the past five minutes that Mr. Holland was 
jealous of his wife’s friendship with Gordon Temple ; and 
the situation entertained her. It flattered her discrimina- 
tion ; it pleased her to suppose herself holding the key to 
such a situation as she imagined to constitute a large part 
of the interest and occupation of the world. She was in 
the more need of such entertainment that, after the ani- 
mation of the last ten days, spent in the company of peo- 
ple rich, lively, travelling as people travel who have the 
power to follow the caprice of the moment, the old pa- 
lazzo had to her the effect of a dreary convent. She had 
had no idea of what she was coming back to, she said to 
herself — her point of view had changed so much in the 
last few days. She wondered at her own infatuation in 
choosing to return to Venice rather than to go on to the 
Engadine ; she had behaved like a little schoolgirl, she 
thought, who should prefer to go on wearing a brown 
linsey frock when a fine court dress had been provided for 
her. The comparison was a juster one than Dulcie per- 
haps imagined. Her relations to Mr. Holland, especially 
since his marriage, had not been distinguished by sincer- 
ity, or the absence of egotism. Nevertheless, her affection 
for the friend she had known most of her life had been 
one of her most genuine sentiments ; and when, before the 
afternoon was ended, she reflected with a yawn that the 
rS/e of companion to an invalid clergyman was, after all, 
not a very engaging one — she wondered why she had ever 
thought it was — she was on the verge of divesting her- 
self of one of the last rags of simplicity that clung to 
her. 

By tea-time Dulcie had quite made up her mind that she 
would not return to Thornton Briars. It was not too late 
to write and propose rejoining her friends. They would 
be charmed to have her, she knew ; she had made herself 
charming ! In any case, she reflected, she must have re- 
turned to Casa Holland to fetch the trunks she had left 
there ; and, after all, she had seen nothing yet of Venice. 
She cared very little about sight-seeing in itself ; still, it 
was useful for conversational purposes, and there would 
be an obvious absurdity in having spent three weeks or 
more there, and seen none of the things well-instructed 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


369 


people went to see. She had found the disadvantages of 
that already in these last days ; when she asserted that the 
care of an invalid friend had kept her back from visiting 
Tintorettos and Carpaccios, she had been pitied, but not 
admired in the least. Evidently, to see pictures was the 
more admirable, and also the more profitable, occupation ; 
and Dulcie had come back determined to do her duty in 
that respect. She would make the most, then, of this week 
that remained — if she had anything more to say in the 
matter, she would beg Mr. Holland not to remain longer 
— and at the end of the week she would go on to the 
Engadine. 

It is not, I believe, a new observation, that the force ex- 
pended by the human mind for trivial ends might, if other- 
wise directed, achieve great enterprises ; and to the im- 
partial historian the contortions of an ant discontented 
with its lodging in the ant’s nest should be a no less in- 
teresting subject of contemplation than the mythic flight 
of the eagle toward the sun. Dulcie was not at her great 
enterprises yet, though in later years her ant-like intrigues 
brought about results that occasioned some wonder among 
those who remembered the early days of the daughter of 
the village doctor. Elisabeth, who was incapable of taking 
an impartial view of Dulcie’s proceedings, was simply ex- 
asperated by sucli of her intrigues as she perceived and 
understood, and was denied the satisfaction of knowing 
the resolution at which that young lady arrived in the 
course of the afternoon, to part company with her present 
entertainers. Dulcie, who made to-day nearly unbearable, 
was a figure who closed every perspective of her immediate 
future. She said nothing, however, whilst Dulcie — who, 
after all, had the qualities of her defects, and a genuine 
desire to make other people pleased with her — kept up 
her usual liv^ely air of being perfectly at home, and ready 
to devote herself, her time, her energies to Mr. Holland. 
Only late in the day Elisabeth’s self-command gave way. 
She had left the room after supper to speak on some 
household matter with Maddalena, and, returning, found 
Dulcie in her favorite seat on a low stool at Mr. Holland’s 
side, reading her diary aloud. Elisabeth took up her 
work and sat listening for awhile ; then something in Dul- 
cie’s attitude, in her voice, in the complacency with which 
she retailed and commented on the trivial notliings that 
made up her journal, touched her beyond control. She 
jumped up, letting her cotton and scissors roll unheeded 
29 


370 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


from her lap on to the floor, flung her work on to the 
nearest table, and abruptly left the room. 

She went into the dressing-room adjoining, and sat down 
in the dark on the window-seat. She had left the door 
ajar, and she could still hear the murmur of Dulcie’s voice ; 
but she could neither distinguish the words nor see the 
speaker ; that at least was a gain. In a minute Elisabeth, 
as her way was, fell to reproaching herself for her passion ; 
but she could not rid herself of her deep resentment at 
Dulcie. She sat leaning back in the window-seat with 
folded arms, whilst below her spread itself out, unheeded, 
the wonderful spectacle of Venice at night. The echoes 
of a chorus, the gleam of colored lamps as an illuminated 
gondola floated by, came up from the water. Elisabeth 
closed the shutter with a sudden movement ; she wanted 
nothing so much as darkness and silence ; she felt inex- 
pressibly tired, weary of herself, and everything else. 
The longing for flight, that haunted her at every crisis of 
her fate, came over her now ; the craving for liberty, the 
desire to cut the complications of her insoluble problem 
by escape. A vision crossed her mind for a moment, of 
wide spaces of the world where she would be alone and 
free— Elisabeth had still a child’s belief in absolute free- 
dom — that shook her whole soul with irrepressible long- 
ing. It was only for a moment ; all that lay outside her 
real life ; her life was here. Through the half-open door 
she still heard Dulcie’s voice reading on, now and then 
breaking into a laugh, interrupted by some word from her 
auditor, then resuming its monotonous course. Presently 
the voice ceased ; Dulcie had risen and was wishing Mr. 
Holland good-night. Elisabeth heard her husband’s slow 
step cross the floor ; a minute later he entered, carrying 
the lamp that had lighted the sitting-room, and passing on 
into the adjoining bedroom, set down the lamp on the 
centre table, drew his writing-case toward him, and sitting 
down, began to write. He paid no heed to Elisabeth, who 
had followed him into the room, and who now approached 
the table. 

Can’t I do that for you ?” she said, with some timid- 
ity. He was displeased with her, she knew, and she 
dreaded his displeasure still. 

Thank you ; I prefer to do it myself,” he said, not rais- 
ing his eyes from the paper before him. Elisabeth said no 
more ; she sat down in an armchair by the table, and took 
up a book that she could not read. The lamplight shone 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 371 

on her husband’s pale face opposite ; his face worn and 
lined and refined through much suffering. She cared for 
him ; yes, she still cared for him with that great tender- 
ness that is hardly less than love. He had suffered so 
much — how much he must have suffered if that episode in 
the past were indeed true. Elisabeth was young, and guilt 
and remorse in her idea were ineffaceable. To have sinned 
was to bear the weight and stain of sin through life ; that 
was how she felt it. She had no conception of the merci- 
ful oblivion brought by the passage of years, of the heal- 
ing touch of repentance, of the efficacy of right conduct. 
She could be tender toward sin ; but it was to her young 
sense irremediable in a way. How her husband must 
have suffered ; how he must suffer still ! Her secret op- 
pressed her with a terrible sense of guilt. As she sat 
there, looking at his bent head in the lamplight, watching 
the feeble movement of his hand as the pen passed over 
the paper, the great longing came over her again, to go to 
his side, to tell him of her knowledge, and ask his for- 
giveness in a breath. If she only dared ! Elisabeth dreaded 
hard words as she dreaded nothing else in life ; and yet, 
if she only dared. . . . 

Mr. Holland laid down his pen, folded and directed his 
letter. “Elisabeth, I wish to speak to you,” he said then 
in his grave, deliberate tones. 

“ Yes,” said Elisabeth, her thought perishing in a sudden 
chill at his manner. 

“ So long,” he said, in the same deliberate tones, as 
Dulcie continues our guest, you would oblige me greatly 
by treating her with the regard due to a guest, and not 
with the rudeness that must cause her extreme embarrass- 
ment and discomfort.” 

“ Dulcie is not our guest,” said Elisabeth, with a sudden 
bitterness ; “ she considers herself at home. She says so, 
and she makes herself at home !” 

“ She is at least my friend,” said Mr. Holland, with em- 
phasis ; “ and as such, some consideration from you is due 
to her, I imagine. That she is not your friend, that you 
choose always to regard her with an inexplicable ill-will, 
is certainly your fault, and not hers.” 

“ I do not — I do not ” began Elisabeth, and checked 

herself. A sense of the commonness of contention and 
bitter words was always strong within her ; she could not 
bear them. But an equal sense of truth and justice, and 
the strong resentment inspired by Dulcie’s conduct toward 


372 THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 

herself, compelled her to speak. She could not simply 
acquiesce in her husband’s estimate of the matter. 

“ I don’t wisli,” she began quietly enough, though her 
lips trembled a little, “to be wanting in consideration to 
Dulcie. I am sorry I vexed you this evening ; one ought 

to be patient, I know It is true Dulcie is not my 

friend ; but I don’t think it is altogether my fault. I can’t 
help seeing her as she is ; I can’t look upon her as you 
do. She is not sincere ; she is never sincere ! She is 
always pretending, always ; I never really trust her at all 
in anything that she says. She is false throughout ; I 
can’t lielp feeling her to be false. I cannot make friends 
with a person like that ! ” 

Elisabeth had spoken with increased heat, in spite of 
her effort to be tranquil — in spite of her effort even to be 
impartial. She wanted to judge Dulcie as she was, apart 
from her relations to herself. She was incapable of bring- 
ing against her any petty accusations relating to her own 
wrongs. Mr. Holland looked at her silently for a minute 
when she had done speaking. 

“ I am unable,” he said then, “ to account for a singular 
change in your manner in these last few days, Elisabeth. 
You seem to me to assert yourself strangely.” 

Elisabeth was confounded. “ I didn’t know,” she fal- 
tered ; “ I have no wish to assert myself.” 

“ That is possible ; but I mention it because I think a 
little deference to my opinion on certain points would be 
not unbecoming. Do you imagine, for instance, that you 
are better able to judge of Dulcie, whose acquaintance you 
have made only within the last year or two, than I, who 
have known her since she was eight years old ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Elisabeth, despondingly ; “ I see 
her differently, I suppose. She is different with you, I 
know ; but that doesn’t alter my feeling about her. You 
say I assert myself ; I have no wish to assert myself, but I 
am no longer a child, Robert. I am capable of judging 
of right and wrong ; and it doesn’t seem to me right — it 
seems to me wrong always to shut one’s eyes.” 

Mr. Holland closed his writing-case, and rose from the 
table. “We need not discuss the matter further,” he said ; 
“ your judgment of Dulcie is entirely wrong, and founded, 
as I am forced to suppose, on sentiments I have no desire 
to characterize. She has faults, no doubt ; we have often 
spoken of them together, and she is the first to be willing 
to own them. That may concern me as her spiritual pas- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


373 


tor ; but if you, Elisabeth, were to study what is admirable 
in her, and worthy of imitation, you might learn to speak 
of her in a spirit of greater kindness and charity. In any 
case, I must beg that, while she remains with us, you will 
refrain from distressing her by any overt display of animo- 
sity. My dear, I should be obliged if you would prepare 
the sleeping-draught recommended me by Dr. Fawcett. I 
am very tired this evening, and at the same time restless 
and indisposed for sleep. I should be glad, if possible, to 
have a good night’s rest.” 

Elisabeth did as she was requested ; and such satisfac- 
tion as might be derived from the fact that it was she who 
prepared her husband’s sleeping-draught, and not Dulcie, 
was hers. But she herself lay long wakeful, while the 
clocks of Venice struck hour after hour, and the night 
darkened and paled over the far reaches of the lagoons. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

A HAPPY PAIR. 

To desire something is probably an inalienable condi- 
tion of human mind, and amid the profound sadness that 
had settled down upon her like an immovable cloud, Elisa- 
beth still found herself capable of wishing, with some 
ardor, that their stay in Venice might not be prolonged 
beyond tlie week mentioned by her husband. That was 
one among several conclusions that she had tried to arrive 
at during the wakeful hours of the night. It was not easy 
to arrive at conclusions ; her life seemed to her involved 
beyond hope and disentanglement ; but to leave Venice, 
where the skein had lost itself in such dreary intricacies, 
would at least change the immediate conditions. There 
was always the question, the essential question, of her 
husband’s health ; but the summer was already advanced ; 
Venice might at any moment become too hot ; and now 
that he was so much better, it was possible the more brac- 
ing air of Thornton Briars might bring him renewed 
strength. Elisabeth, sick at heart, tossing restlessly, with 
the restlessness that believes any change may bring with 
it something of ease, began to think almost with longing 
of the old gray house, the wind-swept moorland, the lonely 
clumps of firs. Compared with the present, her life there, 


374 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


she thought, had been one of peace ; perhaps she would 
find the peace awaiting her return, in the still interior, 
between the covers of the polite volumes, in the face of 
her faithful handmaid. It was a delusion Elisabeth 
cherished for about a minute, and tlien she let it go. It 
would not do ! Still, she wished to leave Venice. Emilia 
was coming, it was true, and Elisabeth loved Emilia ; but, 
never wholly at ease with her sister-in-law, she dreaded 
the serene and sensible gaze that would at once, she 
believed, read all the sadness, all the forlornness and 
poverty of her married life, and read it perhaps coldly. 
If it had been the Baroness ! At the very thought Elisa- 
beth’s whole soul rose in longing. If she could see the 
Baroness, thought the poor child, if she could see the 
friend whose goodness to her three years ago had won 
and kept her passionate gratitude, life would seem easier. 
She would say nothing, the Baroness would say nothing ; 
there would be no wounding confidences or consolation ; 
but Elisabeth felt as if all her troubles would be under- 
stood. But a hope that had been strong in her when she 
came to Venice, of seeing Madame von Leuwine, had died 
away lately ; she had heard nothing of her friend since her 
arrival. The Baroness was always too busy to indulge in 
much letter-writing, and Elisabeth's last letter to her had 
remained unanswered. No, tliere was nothing to make 
her wish to remain in Venice ; it was better to go ; she 
wanted to get away. She was tormented, she was tortured 
by claims upon her powers of admiration and enjoyment, 
when enjoyment and admiration lay dead. 

Whatever Elisabeth’s wishes might be, however, they 
would not, as she was aware, move her husband a hair’s- 
breadth from one purpose or another. He received her 
when she carried in his breakfast in the morning with 
something of kindness in his manner, such as lately had 
not unfrequently showed itself after his harsher moments. 
It had used to move her greatly; she was grateful for it 
even now. He was awake when she went in, lying propped 
up with pillows, jotting down some calculations in a note- 
book. He had slept, he said, in answer to her inquiries — 
‘‘Thanks to your sleeping-draught, my dear,” he added ; 
and continued jotting down his figures before drinking 
the tea she poured out for him. In a minute he spoke 
again. 

“ Have you any money, my dear ? ” 

“ I have the five francs you gave me on my dress ac- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


375 


count, out of the change from the chemists’ bill,” said 
Elisabeth. She had also the change from the five-pound 
note she had taken to the money changer’s ; but she had 
entirely forgotten it for the moment. 

“Then, my dear, I should wish you to take a gondola 
and go out witli Dulcie this morning. On the whole, and after 
due consideration, I believe it will be best for me to ad- 
liere to my plan of leaving this in a week ; and I should 
wish Dulcie to see what she can of Venice before leaving. 
She is not strong ; she is not like you, who can walk any 
distance, and it will be well for her, therefore, to have a 
gondola. The expense, I believe, is not great ; and as you 
liave already visited various places, you can take her to 
what is best worth seeing. I should not wish her, as she 
is in my charge, to go about alone.” 

“ I will go, of course,” said Elisabeth, glad to have so 
easy a duty to perform to Dulcie. In the watches of the 
night she had resolved to be better to Dulcie. Dulcie 
was inevitable, it appeared ; well, so much was inevitable ! 
It was her own impatience, Elisabeth decided, gazing 
with her sad young eyes through the darkness, that made 
the inevitable so hard to bear. Well, she would try to be 
patient. 

Afterwards Elisabeth found that she retained a singu- 
lar memory of every detail of that morning’s excursion, 
through which she went with a listlessness that still seemed 
to herself incredible. She could not understand how 
trouble should have power to dim earth and the sunlight 
and the sky ; she wondered at herself. The two girls 
found little to say to each other as they sat together in the 
gondola. Dulcie had brought a red guide-book with her, 
in which she was absorbed. Elisabeth sat silent at her 
side, occasionally answering a question or giving a direc- 
tion to the gondolier, looking through darkness, so it 
seemed to her, at this changed Venice of her dreams. And 
yet, afterward, each detail seemed to live in her memory. 
She remembered the glowing sunlight, the ardent heat, the 
scarlet of the pomegranate-trees bursting into flower over 
garden walls, the figures crossing the bridges against the 
sky, the swirl of light and color in the water, the pavement 
that felt burning to their feet as they ascended and de- 
scended the steps of the church or riva,, the scent of white 
lilies here and there in the air, the yellow and red and 
crimson of the cherries piled beneath red striped awnings 
in some sunny corner of a campo. These things, and such 


376 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


as these, burnt themselves into her memory ; but what 
places they visited she remembered afterwards hardly at 
all. She left the choice and the direction to Dulcie, who 
wanted to see Carpaccio and Tintoretto, she said, and who 
proceeded to select from her guide-book such Tintorettos 
and Carpaccios as she first wished to see. They found 
themselves at last in the Accademia ; it was the hottest day 
they had yet had, and Elisabeth, tired from her wakeful 
night, fatigued by the oppressive atmosphere of the rooms, 
sat down on a sofa opposite Titian’s great Presentation in 
the Temple, whilst Dulcie wandered away with her guide- 
book. Elisabeth closed her eyes more in mental than in 
physical somnolence ; she was glad to see nothing, to think 
of nothing, for a moment. She was roused by a familiar 
voice at her side. 

“ Don’t let me disturb you, my dear Elisabeth, if you are 
really asleep ! Otherwise, I am delighted to find you here, 
that we may have a little chat together.” 

Elisabeth started up in amazement. Mrs. Sparrow was 
the last person she would have expected to meet in the 
Accademia. That excellent woman was quite above pre- 
tences of any kind ; a missionary tract, frankly, had more 
attraction for her than the finest picture in the world. 
And yet here she was ; and not only here, but cheerful, 
beaming, jocose even, to a degree and after a fashion that 
Elisabeth had never beheld in her before. Her attire cor- 
responded to her countenance ; it was a Wednesday, and 
yet she wore her Sunday brown silk and best green bon- 
net, surmounted by a parrot’s wing, and fastened with a 
topaz brooch that gave the last festive touch to her ap- 
pearance. She also wore a pair of stiff, bright-colored 
gloves, whose shape bore no special relation to her hands, 
but whose newness and freshness of hue were highly dec- 
orative. Elisabeth was accustomed to Mrs. Sparrow’s 
raiment, modest in material, brilliant in effect ; but there 
was a certain radiance about her to-day quite new in her 
experience of her. 

“You are surprised to see me, my dear Elisabeth,” she 
said ; “ and it is true I have little leisure, as a rule, for 
what is called sight seeing — a sad waste of time, indeed, 
it generally seems to me. Still, there are occasions when 
one must set aside one’s own more useful occupations out 
of consideration for others, and then even frivolous pur- 
suits may be considered sanctified. Who do you think 
is with me ? But sit down, my dear Elisabeth ; we can 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


377 


talk more at ease, and there is little here, I confess, that 1 
desire to look at. Sad heathen subjects all these old pic- 
tures seem to be ; and I shall call my young people away 
directly. Who do you suppose is with me ? ” 

‘‘Is Mary here ? ” said Elisabeth, unable to frame any 
other conjecture. 

“ Mary is here, certainly ; but who do you think is with 
her ? There, you can see them together now, standing 
with their backs toward us. You don’t recognize him ? 
Well, three years do make a difference in us all — Herr 
Nauders, my dear ; yes, Herr Nauders ! He arrived quite 
unexpectedly at Frau Werner’s three days ago, and yes- 
terday he proposed for Mary. His father is dead ; it was 
he, it seems, who always opposed the marriage ; but he 
found he couldn’t live without Mary, and here he is ?” 

“ Oh, I’m glad — I am very glad ! ” said Elisabeth. 
“ That is what you wished, dear Mrs. Sparrow.” 

“ Yes, my dear — yes. We are truly thankful for Mary’s 
happiness ; and much as we liked Herr Nauders before, I 
must say he is wonderfully improved. There are some 
drawbacks ; there always are, I suppose. The poor young 
man has not nearly so large a fortune as he had reason to 
expect ; in fact, he has hardly any. His father made some 
rash speculations before his death, and lost nearly all he 
possessed. Still, William — his name is William, though 
he writes it, of course, the German way — William has a 
Church already, not a very lucrative one, but enough for 
a young couple to begin upon : and riches, after all, are 
a snare. I couldn’t truly wish my child to have the temp- 
tation, Elisabeth, though the flesh is weak. Of course the 
marriage is not everything one could desire ; to have had 
Mary established as you are, my dear, that would have 
fulfilled all my wishes. But it is not every young girl 
who has a chance such as you have had.” 

“No!” said Elisabeth. “Mary is happy though, I 
hope,” she went on. “ I remember, I used to think she 
liked Herr Nauders.” 

“ Happy, poor child ? — she can hardly speak for happi- 
ness ! Yes, there they are together, you see. Herr Nau- 
ners has never seen Venice, so he made a list out of the 
guide-book, and we are going to each place in turn. I’m 
rather sorry we came in here, though ; I am afraid Herr 
Nauders may be shocked, perhaps.” 

Herr Nauders, who turned round at this moment, did 
not look at all shocked. He was still a pale and snub- 


37^ 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


nosed young man, but with a face of the most beaming 
and smiling aspect as he moved briskly off with his be- 
trothed at his side to look at another picture. Mary, on 
the otlier hand, had an air of preternatural gravity, in- 
duced by the solemnity of the occasion. She glanced 
furtively, without smiling, at Elisabeth as they passed, 
whilst her mother nodded and beamed at them with a 
wave of her hand. 

“You don’t know, my dear,” she said, turning again to 
Elisabeth, “ what a relief this engagement, with all its 
drawbacks, is to me. Ah, my dear, night after night I have 
lain awake, thinking what would become of Mary if her 
father and I were to die ; and, in the nature of things, we 
must die some day. With all our savings — and no one 
knows what saving can be till they try ; if you’ll believe 
me, Elisabeth, I have not spent ten pounds on my clothes 
this year — I, who have to keep up an appearance suitable 
to our position ; with all our savings, I say, we have been 
able to put by very little ; and though I have often blamed 
myself for want of faith, the flesh is weak when one thinks 
of one’s only child coming to real want, perhaps. It 
seems hard, Elisabeth, that a man like Mr. Sparrow, who 
has worked and labored in the vineyard for years, should 
still have to wrestle with worldly cares. Everything is ap- 
pointed for the best, we know, and it is not for us to mur- 
mur ; but if the laborer is worthy of his hire, it does seem 
as if things should be arranged a little differently.” 

“Oh, I think it is very hard,” said Elisabeth. “ I know 
it seems sometimes as if one could think of nothing else 
when one has to calculate every shilling that one spends.” 

“ Ah, my dear, things are very different with you. A 
vicar’s wife and a living like Thornton Briars, not to men- 
tion your own fortune ! And all that to come to you be- 
fore you are old enough to know what a struggle means, 
even. Certainly, worldly lots are very differently appor- 
tioned ! Still, with Mary happily married, if we are only 
permanently appointed to the new church at Schlossberg 
— and I don’t see how we can be passed over — I shall feel 
that blessings are multiplied indeed. And that reminds 
me, my dear Elisabeth, to thank you for your kind contri- 
bution to our little collection the other day. Every little 
helps, you know, and your offering will be blessed, I have no 
doubt. You must thank your excellent husband too, my 
dear.” 

“ Oh, don’t thank us ! ” said Elisabeth, suddenly rising ; 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


379 


“ I mean it was nothing ; don’t, please, ever think of it 
again. I’m afraid I must go now, Mrs. Sparrow ; it is get- 
ting near our dinner-hour. Mary has gone into the other 
room, I see ; but please tell her from me how glad I am 
to hear of her engagement. I do hope she will be 
happy.” 

Elisabeth spoke with warmth ; and as she spoke, her 
eyes filled with tears. Mrs. Sparrow looked at her with 
surprise that changed into solicitude. 

‘‘ My dear,” she said, you are not looking well. Are 
you taking proper care of yourself? You used to be so 
sadly heedless, Elisabeth ! and I dare say your husband, 
good as he is, never thinks about your health. Men never 
do, you know, until one is really ill, and then they are as 
vexed with one as can be. Do you take proper food and 
exercise, my dear ? These are things, you know, that 
should never be neglected.” 

Oh, I do,” said Elisabeth, smiling a little. “ I walk 
and eat a great deal, I think. I am quite well. I’m very 
strong, you know ; only to-day I’m a little tired. It’s the 
heat, I suppose.” 

“Yes, that is what Mr. Sparrow says. He feels the heat 
too. I could wish on his account that we were to leave 
Venice now, as we had intended. We were to have gone 
to that Swiss place, you know ; but there has been some 
mistake, and Mr. Sparrow is to take August and Septem- 
ber there, instead of July and August. It vexed him a 
little at first, but no doubt it is all ordained for the best. 
But take care of yourself, my dear, and don’t overwalk in 
this heat. Are you here alone ?” 

“ No,” said Elisabeth, looking round ; “ Miss Fawcett is 
with me. She is staying with us, you know, and I came 
with her this morning, as she wanted to see the pictures. 
I think I must go and find her now. It hurts my husband 
to be kept waiting for his dinner.” 

“That is quite right, my dear — to think of your husband’s 
comfort, I mean — and very thoughtless of Miss Fawcett 
to keep you waiting. I remember, Mr. Sparrow told me 
he had seen her at your house one day, and he didn’t seem 
to think much of her. She was pretty, he said, but he 
fancied she was a sly girl. He didn’t say that exactly, but 
that was the impression he gave me. Is that she coming 
up to us now ? Well, she is a pretty creature, Elisabeth — 
that I must say for her ; and thinks a good deal of it, I 
dare say, as such girls will.” 


380 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


‘‘ I don’t think she does,” said Elisabeth, with perfect 
candor. Vanity had newer seemed to her among Miss 
Fawcett’s failings. The young girl, indeed, had one of 
those faces that vary so much from day to day, that though 
there were times when she might pass as a beauty, there 
were others when she was almost plain. To-day she 
looked, in fact, charming, in a fresh blue and white cam- 
bric gown. She came up to Elisabeth and addressed her, 
fanning herself the while and looking, smiling, at Mrs. 
Sparrow. 

‘‘Don’t you think we had better go ? ” she said. “I 
have been waiting in the next room till you seemed quite 
to have finished your conversation. But it is getting late, 
you know, and Mr. Holland has often told me how much 
he suffers when he is kept waiting for dinner. Want of 
punctuality is one of the things he most suffers from, he 
says.” 

“ Let us go,” said Elisabeth, briefly. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

IRREVOCABLE. 

They reached home some few minutes before the din- 
ner-hour. Dulcie disappeared to take off her hat, and 
Elisabeth, who had some direction to give Maddalena, 
went on into the kitchen. There was a sound of voices as 
she opened the door, and she found the old woman in 
company with the postman, who, immediately on Elisa- 
beth’s entrance, handed her a registered letter, together 
with a book to sign. Maddalena, who was busy preparing 
to carry the soup into the dining-room, explained the 
man’s presence there. 

“ He came this morning,” she said, “at the usual hour; 
but you were out, signora, and the signore was sound 
asleep after dressing himself, so that it would be a sin to 
disturb him, I thought. So I told the man to come again, 
as you would be in for certain by two o’clock, and he is 
this moment arrived.” 

Elisabeth signed the receipt and thrust the letter into 
her pocket. She had hardly glanced at the address, but she 
had seen that the handwriting was strange to her, and she 
hardly doubted from whom it had come ; she felt sure it 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 381 

was from Mr. Brudenel. She stood still for a moment 
gazing at Maddalena, till she was able to remember what 
errand had brought her into the kitchen ; then she went 
away quickly to Take off her hat and prepare for dinner. 
She could not read her letter then ; she did not want to 
read it. An utter dismay filled her heart ; she would have 
given the world never to have written to Mr. Brudenel ; 
she ought not to have written, she felt, with a sickening 
misgiving. She had dreaded and hoped for this answer, 
but she felt nothing but dread now. Whatever was in the 
letter, it could only give her some horrible pain. She had 
not expected to hear from him so soon, having calculated 
that the following day was the earliest on which an answer 
could reach her ; but she was imperfectly acquainted with 
the Italian post, and could easily suppose her calculation 
to have been wrong. Now and then during dinner slie 
felt for the letter in her pocket ; it lay there like a guilty 
consciousness. If she could have destroyed it unread, slie 
would have been thankful to do so ; but she could not do 
that — she could not ! She ate hardly anything ; she left 
all the conversation to Dulcie. There was sometliing, she 
knew, that she had intended to tell her husband; only a 
long while afterward she remembered that it was of Mary 
Sparrow’s engagement. Presently she was impressed by 
what had not at first struck her — the thickness of the letter, 
and the fact that it had been registered. Mr. Brudenel 
must have returned the money she had sent, and in that 
case the whole story must be false. A burning flush rose 
to Elisabeth’s face. She had hoped — all along she had 
hoped more than she knew — that that was what the letter 
would tell her ; but in having accepted the accusation 
against her husband she felt like a criminal. 

She went, as usual, to his room after dinner, to close 
and shade the windows, and arrange sofa-pillows and 
coverlet for the half- hour’s rest he always took in the after- 
noon. Elisabeth lingered over the business ; she made it 
as long as possible. That will do, my dear,” Mr. Hol- 
land said at last, and she had no excuse for remaining. 
She passed into the little frescoed room adjoining, closed 
the door, and taking the letter from her pocket, sat star- 
ing at it for a while as it lay before her in her lap. She 
magnified its contents ; she sat trembling as though it 
were about to pass a judgment on her own past life and 
her husband’s. At last she broke the seals in haste, open- 
ing the letter desperately. The packet of notes fell out, 


382 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


and lay unheeded on the floor. A written sheet lay with- 
in. Elisabeth took it out and read. 

Dear Madam ” (the letter ran). 

I write at once to relieve you of an anxiety that I 
beg to assure you is unfounded. The debt of which you 
speak was settled and done with long ago ; to set your 
mind entirely at rest, I may add that it was repaid at once 
by a near relation of your husband. I regret very much 
that an affair which I have always chosen to regard as 
personal — as lying, that is, between your husband and my- 
self — should in any way have come to your knowledge. 
Of the three or four persons cognizant of it, two at least 
are dead ; I had imagined, I had hoped, that the whole 
thing now lay, in fact, between your husband and mysjlf, 
a forgotten memory. 

“Since it has unhappily revived, to give you, I fear, 
some uneasiness, I write these few lines of explanation ; 
but if you will permit the advice of an old man, you will 
allow the matter to pass from your mind as though it had 
never been. We have to thank God’s mercy that our 
errors, whatever their ultimate consequences may be, do 
not necessarily affect our whole conduct in life ; and, 
speaking for myself, your husband has always had my 
warm admiration and respect as one of the most devoted 
and energetic workers it has been my fortune to meet 
with. It grieved me much to hear from you that his health 
had broken down ; and it would have given me so much 
pleasure to meet him again, that I greatly regret the event 
that took you from London the day after I had the fortun- 
ate chance of making your acquaintance. I called at your 
lodging, but found you already gone. Perhaps, if you pass 
through London again, you will allow me the gratification 
of continuing an acquaintance that ended too abruptly, 
and of renewing an old friendship that I greatly value. 

“ Believe me to remain, dear madam, 

“Very faithfully and sincerely yours, 

“ Arthur Brudenel.” 

The paper fell from Elisabeth’s hand. No, not until 
now had she known how greatly she built upon the hope 
that this letter would clear her husband, and prove tlie 
story a lie. It was no lie — it was plain and literal truth ; 
between the guarded words she could read tlie truth. And 
yet the words worked in her a strange reaction, a sense of 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


383 

wasted emotion, of reproof to herself that perplexed and 
confounded her. The calm wisdom of the old man found 
no response in her heart — not yet. A tragedy that had 
rent her life in two could not pass from her mind as 
though it had never been ; she could not sit witness, as it 
were, to a great moral degradation in her husband, then 
rise from that sorry spectacle and let the curtain fall indif- 
ferent upon the scene. It was there, it was there ; behind 
the curtain it was always there. Not the less, she felt 
thrown back upon herself, beaten to the ground. She sat 
gazing drearily before her, her hands folded in her lap. 
Her life was broken, and there was nothing left for her to 
do ; she did not see what she was to do. Presently she 
picked up Mr. Brudenel’s letter from the floor and spread 
it on the table before her. She must answer it, she thought, 
and acknowledge the money, or he might write again. 
She could not have him write again ; she would answer it, 
and that part of the business would be closed for ever. 

She had written but three lines — she hardly meant to 
write more ; in the simplest words she would thank him 
for his letter and for the money — she had written, I say, 
but three lines when she heard a slow hand laid upon the 
handle of the door that communicated with the adjoining 
bed-room. Elisabeth sprang startled to her feet. Her 
husband very rarely came into ^.his little room she had 
appropriated to her own use. He had not indeed remon- 
strated, but he had disapproved, she felt, tacitly of the 
arrangement, as an assumption of independence. She 
kept her books there, and he did not care about her books ; 
she wrote her few letters there to Emilia, to the Baroness, 
and he would have preferred that that correspondence 
should cease. ‘‘ I fail to understand, my dear, the pleasure 
you find in shutting yourself up alone,’' he had said to her 
once or twice in the beginning of their stay in Venice ; 
and Elisabeth had been careful to shut herself up only at 
such hours as he himself was resting, to be in the sitting- 
room before he made his tardy appearance in the morning, 
or took his place for the afternoon in the armchair by the 
window. But to-day she had failed to note the lapse of 
time. Her husband's hand fumbled for a moment with 
the lock, the door opened, and he stood with his slight 
stoop and worn face on the threshold. 

“Are you here, my dear?” he said. “I cannot imagine, 
Elisabeth, the pleasure you find ” 

He broke off, his attention caught by her startled air, 


3^4 


THE FAILURE OF ELIZABETH, 


and advanced a step further into the room. His eye fell 
upon the packet of bank-notes that still lay unheeded on 
the floor, where they had fallen when Elisabeth opened 
the letter. He stooped to pick it up ; he looked at the 
notes, counting them twice over one by one, and turned 
his eyes upon Elisabeth. 

“ What is this?” he said. ‘‘Where did this money come 
from ? ” 

He waited a minute, but Elisabeth did not answer ; not 
through want of will, but through sheer want of power to 
speak. She stood trembling ; she was terrified by the 
catastrophe. 

He spoke again. 

“Where did this money come from?” he said. “You 
will oblige me, Elisabeth, by an answer to my question. 
I find you — you — in possession of nearly a hundred pounds 
without my knowledge. I have a right, I demand,'to know 
how it came into your hands ! ” 

“ I have had it — it is mine ” began Elisabeth. She 

went on with more coherence : “ I have had it a long time,” 
she said. “ It was a present from Baroness von Leuwine ; 
she sent it to me the day before I married. She told me 
to put it away and say nothing about it. I — I am sorry 

” She broke off, faltering under the expression of 

her husband’s eye. 

“You have had it a long time?” he said; “you have 
had it for three years and said nothing about it ? You have 
been aware that I have been in straits for money, that the 
strictest economy has been necessary to me in every direc- 
tion, and you have kept a sum like this concealed, hidden 
away for private purposes, I suppose to serve your private 
ends ! It is yours, you say ; I liave yet to learn that a 
wife’s interests are to be so considered apart from her hus- 
band’s. Is that your idea of wifely duty ? ” 

“Oh, it is not so, it is not so !” cried Elisabeth. “I did 
mean to give it to you — I did. You do not understand.” 

“I do not understand?” he said. “I am not so dull of 
comprehension.” 

“No, you do not understand,” she said, desperately. 
“The Baroness sent me the money ; it was sealed up ; I 
had no idea how much there was ; she didn’t say. She 
told me only to keep it, that some time I might want 
money ; I was not to open it until then. I didn’t know 
how much there was ; I never thought about it until the 
other day ; and then, when I could not — I could not ask 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABEJ'H, 


3^5 


Mrs. Sparrow for the money back, I looked. But I did 
mean to give it to you ; I meant to give it to you at once.” 

‘‘You gave me forty francs,” said Mr. Holland, with 
chill irony; “that was a week ago. May I ask why you 
did not carry out your intention ? ” 

Elisabeth did not answer ; she could not answer ; she 
did not know what to say ; but involuntarily her hand 
covered Mr. Brudenel’s letter, that lay open before her on 
the table. Her husband’s eyes followed her movement ; 
his glance fell on the registered envelope with its broken 
seals, in which the letter had come. 

“ What is all this ?” he said, taking it up and looking at 
the address. Suddenly he fixed his eyes on his wife again, 
with a look that appalled her. “ What is all this ? ” he re- 
peated, striking the paper with his hand. “ Who sent you 
this ? Have the goodness to give me the letter that came 
in it.” 

He seized the sheet of paper on which Elisabeth had be- 
gun to write, glanced at the first words, and pulled the let- 
ter she held from under her hand. Elisabeth threw her- 
self forward to regain possession. 

“ Not that ! ” she said ; “ don’t read that letter ! I will 
tell you — I will tell you ” 

Her voice failed ; he took hold of her wrist and held her 
back forcibly, his hand trembling with the effort it cost 
him, while he read the first two or three lines. A dreadful 
pallor came over his face. 

“Come with me,” he said. Still holding her wrist with 
one hand, the papers with the other, he passed through 
into the bedroom, and sank down upon the sofa. “ Have 
the goodness to sit down,” he said, loosening his hold, but 
not raising his eyes ; and Elisabeth, helpless to oppose 
him, dropped into the nearest chair. He read through Mr. 
Brudenei’s letter without speaking ; he read it twice, he 
read the answer she had begun, then, crushing them to- 
gether in his hand, flung them from him to the furthest 
corner of the room, and turned upon her. The pallor was 
gone from his face ; it was flushed, and there was a terrible 
anger in his eyes. 

“ You wrote to Mr. Brudenel ? ” he said. 

“ Yes, I wrote to him,” said Elisabeth, with a long sigh, 
letting her hands fall by her side. The worst moment 
was come ; nothing could be worse than this ; it deadened 
sensation ; it almost annihilated terror. 

“You sent him the money?” 

25 


386 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


“ Yes/' she said again, “ I sent it. I thought it right.” 

He moved a little, placing both hands on the sofa, as if 
to rise. “You thought it right?” he said. “Who made 
you the judge ? In what does it concern you ? Who are 
you to make or meddle in the matter ? ” 

He paused, but Elisabeth did not speak. 

“ If,” he went on, his voice gathering force as he spoke, 
“ I committed an error years ago, of which years ago I 
repented, what is that to you ? Who — who are you, to 
presume to thrust yourself in ? The matter is one that 
concerns myself alone ; it lies between me and my God.” 

He rose ; he stood towering above her in his anger. 

“ Go ! ” he said, pointing to the door ; “ I repent the 
day that I first saw you ; I would to Heaven I had never 
set eyes on you ; I could pray that I might never see you 
again ! ” 

He pointed to the door for her to go, and Elisabeth 
went. 


CHAPTER XL. 

DULCIE MAKES HERSELF USEFUL AGAIN. 

She went back into the little salottino, and, sitting 
down by the table, laid her head upon her arms. She did 
not think at first, not for a long time ; she did not feel ; 
afterward it seemed to her as though she must have even 
slept a little ; a sort of numbness had fallen upon her. 
Presently, however, with a start, as it were, although she 
sat without moving, the swiftest current of thought began 
to pass through her brain. She felt outraged, wounded to 
the heart, scathed by the bitter contempt and anger of her 
husband’s words ; and yet through it all she was conscious 
of a certain reconcilement between her spirit and his. He 
had sinned, but he had repented ; yes, he was right in 
what he had said: his past lay between God and himself. 
Elisabeth recognized it with a pang of humility and re- 
morse. Who indeed was she that she should judge ? For 
her also that dark passage in her husband’s past sliould be 
effaced. But not the less she felt the separation between 
them to be complete. It was not only that, not only that ! 
That was but the bitter end of all that had gone before. 
Her husband’s last words rang cruelly in her ears ; she 
put her hands to her ears as though to shut them out ; 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 387 

she had not thought words could be so cruel. She had 
known, she had tried so hard not to know, that he no 
longer loved her ; but now she felt he could never have 
loved her — never. The last pale ashes of that hearth she 
had feared to desecrate were scattered to the winds ; nay, 
the hearth itself had sunk into an abyss ; she sat gazing 
on an immense void. 

She would go away, she presently resolved. She had 
thought of that so often before ; always in any great 
trouble in her life, that thought had crossed her mind ; 
but now she made the resolution in earnest. Her husband 
repented the day that he had first seen her. Well, he 
should never see her again. The bitter tears of wounded 
pride, of slain affection, of passionate resentment, forced 
themselves to Elisabeth’s eyes ; he should never see her 
again. A sob rose at the thought of the infinite loss of 
her life, but her resolution did not waver ; on the contrary, 
the details of apian succeeded each other in her mind with 
extreme clearness and rapidity. She had money ; that was 
the first, the essential point. The bank-notes still lay on the 
table ; her husband had forgotten them in his new cause 
for agitation, and Elisabeth could feel no scruple in using 
them. They were her own, she said to herself ; alas ! 
could the Baroness have foreseen such a moment as this 
when she made her marriage gift ? Of Italian money she 
had enough left to carry her across the frontier ; that 
would save her the loss of time involved in going to 
a money-changer’s ; the afternoon was wearing away ; she 
could not meet her husband again, she wanted to begone. 
A train, as she knew, left Venice within the next few 
hours ; only yesterday she had been searching the time- 
table for hours and routes, in view of their approaching 
journey to England. There were no difficulties, no ob- 
stacles. She would go to some distant foreign city where 
no one would know her, or be able to discover her ever ; 
and there, before all her money was spent, she would find 
some way to support herself. She would study, she would 
give lessons, not minding how simply she lived ; she 
would find some little room where she could keep her 
books, to which she could go back every evening and feel 
herself alone and free. All Elisabeth’s young blood sprang 
to meet the thought ; she would be free. A vision bor- 
rowed from her old Schlossberg days, of some high set 
chamber looking across strange foreign roofs and spires 
to red sunset skies, crossed her mind. Through all her 


388 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


troubles a throb of excitement made itself felt ; the world 
was before her again, the world of her imagination, to 
wander into and possess. The narrow horizons opened, 
dreamland rushed in, and the old enchanted light. . . . 

She came to herself with a sudden pang. Of what had 
she been thinking ? Her husband was there ; she ought 
not to go ; it would be terrible to go. If she could no 
longer love her husband, she could at least be loyal to him ; 
she had said that to herself too often not to say it again 
now. To live with him with the sense that she was hate- 
ful in his eyes would be impossible ; but she remembered 
his gentler moments, his return to a kinder mood ; with 
his scorching words burning in her mind she could still 
remember these. Her mind returned upon itself. He had 
wounded her profoundly ; she did not know how such a 
wound could ever heal, but she had wounded him also ; 
yes, Elisabeth understood something of that. And then 
there was the money — she ought to have given it to him, 
she supposed ; all along she had known how much he 
would care about that. She laid her head down on her 
folded arms again ; she felt horribly lonely and perplexed 
and confused, and there was no one to advise her or help. 

She drew a sheet of paper toward her at last. She would 
write to her husband, that would be best ; and then she 
did not know what to write. Her perception that in his 
eyes she was greatly to blame, and her habit of accepting 
blame, came to her help. It seemed to herself, indeed, 
that she ought to have acted differently, though, looking 
back, she did not see what else she could have done ; it 
had been so essential to her to do something ! She wrote 
at last, lamely enough, she was aware — she could not say 
what she did not feel — but in the best words she could 
find. 

‘‘Forgive me, Robert,” she wrote. “I ought, I believe, 
to have given you the money before ; you think me greatly 
to blame, I know. But your anger makes me very un- 
happy. Will you not forgive me ? I don’t know how we 
are to go on living at all if you do not ; and how can I 
care for anything so much as that you should be good to 
me ? 

“Elisabeth.” 

She folded the paper, enclosed it with the notes in an 
envelope, and calling to Maddalepa, bade the old woman 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


3S9 


take it to her master. Then she sat down and waited, 
feeling that nothing mattered much now, since she had 
given the money away ; however much she might wish to 
escape, she had shut herself off from it effectually. In 
hardly two minutes Maddalena returned, looking rather 
queerly at her young mistress. 

‘^The signore bade me give you this,’' she said, with 
some hesitation, holding out a letter. Elisabeth took it 
from her, looked at it, and held it in her hand till the old 
woman had left the room. It was her own letter sent back 
to her. The envelope had been opened, and within lay 
the money as she had enclosed it, and her own note torn 
across. 

Afterward, in considering this money returned' on her 
hands, Elisabeth measured the depth of her husband’s 
resentment ; but, looking now at her rejected words, she 
felt that, had he struck her, the insult could hardly have 
been so great. Her cheeks burned ; a passion of indigna- 
tion possessed her such as she had never known before. 
She lost no more time in thought ; she rose from her seat, 
and throwing away the fragments of paper, secured the 
bank-notes in her little travelling pocket-book ; then, pass- 
ing into the adjoining room, began to make brief prepara- 
tions for a journey. The practical business of travelling 
had fallen too exclusively on Elisabeth in these last years 
for her to feel any embarrassment in the prospect of set- 
ting out alone ; she knew exactly what she meant to do 
and how to do it. She went rapidly about it all ; she did 
not want to pause and think now. She packed some linen, 
some books, her gray stuff Sunday gown, into a light 
travelling bag ; she put on her hat, and sitting down, wrote 
one more note to her husband. In the fewest words possi- 
ble she bade him farewell. He had told her that he re- 
pented ever having seen her ; she would never trouble him 
again — never ! Some day, perhaps, he would forgive her 
and think of her more kindly ; that was the hope she went 
away with ; that, and the hope — the hope — that he would 
be happy. Elisabeth signed her name through blinding 
tears, but she dashed them quickly away. She directed 
and stamped this letter ; she would post it, she thought, at 
the station, so that her husband should not get it until she 
had left Venice. Now that she had decided on flight, she 
dreaded the complication of discovery. Then, throwing 
her travelling cloak over her arm, she took up the bag — 
she had selected a light one, but it was heavy, nevertheless^ 


390 


THE FAILCRE OF ELISABETH, 


and pulled at her arm a little — and passing through the 
entry, opened the door on to the great staircase. Her 
plan was to carry the bag to the water-entrance of the 
palazzo, and call a gondola from the traghetto hard by. 
She had no fear of meeting anyone ; the staircase was 
always empty — they had no visitor but Mr. Sparrow ; and 
at the first landing she set down her bag in a dark corner 
and ran up-stairs again. She had left the door ajar, and 
crossing the entry, she went to find Maddalena in the 
kitchen. 

‘‘ Maddalena,’* she said, I am going out, and shall not 
be back to tea. You must take it in, and see that the sig- 
nore has everything he wants.” 

Yes, yes,” said the old woman ; I shall see to it ; he 
shall want for nothing. The signora does well to take a 
little air ; she will have one of her bad headaches again ; I 
can see that by her looks.” 

‘^No, that is nothing,” said Elisabeth. But be sure, 
Maddalena, that the signore has everything he wants.” 

Her voice faltered with the last words. She turned 
quickly away and ran down-stairs again, closing the door 
after her this time. But as she laid her hand on her bag, 
she paused once more. Her own words had moved her 
too deeply. Her husband had driven her from his side ; 
but the thought of him without her, of her place at his 
side always vacant — that was the point of pathos that had 
power to pierce and shake her strongest resolution 
even now. She ran up-stairs once more and rang the 
bell. 

‘‘ I have forgotten something, Maddalena,” she said, 
almost inaudibly, as the old woman opened the door. 

She passed through the entry into the antechamber 
overlooking the canal. She would go straight to her hus- 
band, she thought ; there was nothing now, no miserable 
secret, no untoward knowledge on her part to stand be- 
tween them. She would brave his anger, she would set 
aside her pride and ask him to be good to her ; she would 
so plead that he would surely yield, and their old life, 
such life as had still been possible to either, begin again. 
After all, she was his wife ! 

As she laid her hand on the lock of the sitting-room 
door, she paused a moment to gather courage. The after- 
noon was warm and still ; there was not even the 
splash of an oar on the shadowed water below, only the in- 
terrriittent buzz of flies ; and in the silence she could hear 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


391 


Dulcie’s voice as she sat reading to her husband in the ad- 
joining room. 

Then Elisabeth turned again ; and this time she did not 
come back. 


CHAPTER XLL 

IN A MOUNTAIN VILLAGE. 

One rainy morning, nearly a month later, Elisabeth, 
alighting from an early train, found herself standing once 
more in the familiar station at Schlossberg. 

Elisabeth had spent one day in Munich after leaving 
Venice ; but though beforehand she had dreamed of cities, 
she was scared when she found herself there alone. She 
trembled as she walked through the streets ; at every cor- 
ner she feared to meet some face she knew. Once she 
fancied she saw her husband ; he might have guessed 
her destination, she thought, and followed her by the 
next train. She immediately perceived that she was mis- 
taken ; a moment’s reflection, indeed, assured her that she 
must have been mistaken ; but the alarm remained. She 
could not stay in Munich ; she would hide away for a time 
in some quiet, out-of-the-way place, where she could think 
over and definitively fix what she would next do. She 
bought a guide-book and decided on a little Tyrolese vil- 
lage, attracted by the description of the beauty of its scen- 
ery. Only inexperience could have led her to suppose her- 
self more likely to escape notice in such a place than in the 
crowds of a great city. But fortune favored her; it was 
too early in the season for the rush of tourists, and Elisa- 
beth, for the most part, was alone in her little inn, looked 
after by its kindly people, whose wonder, if they felt 
any, at the young girl who lingered on there alone, could 
at least do her no harm. 

Three weeks after leaving Venice, Elisabeth, thinking 
the matter over — she had thought of little else day 
and night — still felt that she had done what was best. 
Our heroine, as she sits at the casement of a little wooden 
room watching the sunset glow creep up a mountain-side, 
looked hardly older than the Schlossberg school-girl of 
three years back ; she was in some respects hardly wiser. 
Experience is apt to come tardily through a life imposed 
on us by others ; of inward experience, indeed, Elisabeth 


392 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


had had abundance ; but of that other experience that ad- 
justs our relations with the outer world, that rubs off the 
crude angles of ignorance and fills up the lacunes left by tlie 
grammars and primers of our youth, her suppressed and 
monotonous life with Mr. Holland had afforded her but 
little. Elisabeth had, besides, that difficulty in assimilat- 
ing experience common to natures that live greatly by 
the imagination, who pass through illusion to disillusion 
back to illusion, without calculation of consequences. It 
would take her long to grow old ; to the end of her life 
she might, in some directions, still remain young. As she 
sat now, with her chin propped on her hands, a book that 
she was not reading lying open on her knee, she said to 
herself again that she had done what was best. She did 
not say that she had done what was right ; in that dismal 
tangle into which her life had wound itself, right and 
wrong had become so perplexed that her mind refused to 
make the final decision ; if the right lay here or there, so 
much still remained that was \vtong. But she had done 
what was best. There were times during these hours of 
solitude when Elisabeth, reviewing the past three years, 
judged her husband with extraordinary severity ; every 
meanness, every pettiness of his nature, seemed to start up 
in the glaring light this clearer judgment threw on it ; she 
recalled even that sorry incident of the hundred-mark 
note he had lent her, and in what way he had reclaimed 
it. Her cheeks burned with shame and indignation ; how 
could he have treated her so, an inexperienced child as she 
was in those days ? There were other times )vhen she fell 
into passionate weeping over her broken life. Her hus- 
band had never really loved her — the love that had suf- 
ficed for both had all been hers — that was the tardy con- 
viction that weighed upon her most of all. If her mind 
could have dwelt on one remembrance that she might 
have cherished to grieve over, it would have been easier, she 
thought ; but she only interrogated the past to find it all a 
deception and a blank. And now her love also was gone. 

Occasionally, she forgot her troubles altogether in the 
stirring of her young blood, in the joy of freedom in the 
free mountain land. Elisabeth had always longed with an 
insatiable thirst for liberty ; and now, in this brief moment 
of liberty, it did not disappoint her. If only she could have 
banished thought ! But as the days went on, thought be- 
came not less, but more importunate. Her waking hours 
were restless, her sleep broken. Sorpetimes she would 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


393 


awake suddenly in the darkness, fancying she heard her 
husband call. I am coming, Robert ! ” she would cry, 
starting up in bed, bewildered at first by her strange sur- 
roundings ; then sinking back on her pillow, would break 
into sobs and tears again. On what might have occurred 
after her departure from Venice she never allowed herself 
to dwell. She imagined no regret on her husband’s 
part ; it was impossible, after what had passed, that she 
should ; but she had a vision of terrible anger, and his 
anger was a great dread to her even here. Of his health 
she thought often with an anxiety that, growing constantly 
more uneasy, contributed most of all to her restlessness. 
Sometimes she caught herself watching for the post, think- 
ing it must surely bring her a letter ; it was so strange to 
have no news, no tidings ; the silence grew upon her as 
the days passed by Once, even, she packed her bag in 
the resolution to return at any cost ; and then the words 
her husband had spoken returned like insults flung in her 
face to pelt her back ; she would never thrust herself on 
him again — never. And then two other considerations 
held her back. The first was the conviction that she cher- 
ished almost ever since they came to Venice, that her hus- 
band’s illness had taken a favorable turn ; she had per- 
suaded lierself he was on the way to recovery. The other 
was the low estimate he himself had obliged her to form 
of her necessity to his comfort. He had allowed her to do 
so little for him, he had so rarely expressed any pleasure 
in such service as she rendered, that she had no concep- 
tion — it made the tragedy of the present situation and its 
sequel that he had made it impossible she should have a con- 
ception — of how necessary she was to his comfort. Noth- 
ing of what she had done but could be done as well by 
another — that he would not (she could only imagine, things 
being as they were) prefer should be done by another. 
It was the saddest point in her meditations ; she recurred 
to it again and again. He does not want me — he does 
not want me!” she said to herself. ^‘He would rather I 
were away.” 

This conviction it was that, as the days went on and she 
began more definitely to shape her future, helped her 
more than any other to give it form. Her thoughts had 
turned not seldom to the Baroness. Some project she had 
had of making her way to that kind and excellent friend, 
of telling her as much as she could of her story — part of it 
she would n^ver tellj never — of seeking her advice, her 


394 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


sympathy, of asking her to hide and protect her. But the 
probability that her husband might seek her there, her 
vague terrors of what might ensue, withheld her at first, 
and as the days passed on her project became weaker. 
Not merely to leave her husband, but to break utterly with 
her past, to vanish forever into the great mass of human- 
ity, beginning a new life on her own account, and leaving 
him free to begin one on his — that was the young scheme, 
rich in the imprudence and inexperience of youth, that 
began to commend itself to Elisabeth. She welcomed it 
with the same strange throb of exhilaration that had at- 
tended her first project of flight. It presented no difficul- 
ties to her imagination. To feign death — such feigning 
would be easy : some last lines to her husband, a hat and 
handkerchief found caught in weeds on a river bank ; a 
hundred romances offered her a precedent — then to div^e 
deep below the surface, and rise again with changed name, 
untrammelled and unknown, in some far, unthought-of 
land and city. It Avas a scheme tliat offered the strangest 
attractions to her fancy, and it would leave her husband 
free — he might marry Dulcie then ! That was a thought 
that rose unbidden in her mind, to be banished as soon as 
it came. Elisabeth had not been seriously jealous of Dul- 
cie ; she had never supposed, that is — she did not suppose 
now — that her husband had ever been guilty of an un- 
worthy thought toward herself. Her imagination, that 
took such strange leaps in certain directions, had but a 
narrow outlook toward cheap and vulgar wickedness. Her 
jealousy, which had in truth been deep and real enough 
within its limits, had been largely owing to irritation that 
her husband should be imposed upon by a nature whose 
shallowness and insincerity she had seen so clearly. Not 
the less, his open and constant preference for Dulcie’s 
ways and Dulcie’s conduct had worked upon her, as we 
know. ^‘She would have made him a better wife — he 
would have been happier so ; ” that had been her inward 
cry long before this. He does not want me. If he were 
free he could marry her that was the formula that began 
to grow upon her. ‘Hf he were really free !” Elisabeth 
thought, and wished that she were dead ; but with no 
thought of real death in her mind. To pass in very truth 
from the world, with all the rich possibilities of this life 
untried, with the possibilities of the next life all vague and 
unknown — that was a thought that she could not entertain 
for a monientt 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


395 


But a feigned suicide — would it be right or wrong? 
That was the dilemma that held her. It may be said that 
in this reaction from the sadness and sordidness of her 
later years, hardly one strictly practical consideration vis- 
ited Elisabeth’s dreams ; she measured neither the limits 
of her own nature nor the resources of life. Even her 
money seemed to her at first a fairyland of inexhaustible 
treasure. She had never possessed money to spend at will 
before ; she could not understand it. She overpaid every- 
one at first, suffering at once pangs of remorse and a secret 
joy, yet recommencing at the first opportunity. Neverthe- 
less, when, after a fortnight’s stay at the inn, her bill was 
laid before her, Elisabeth did awake to more practical con- 
siderations. There had been moments when, among her 
other dreams, she had dreamed of living on and on in the 
seclusion of this green mountain-side, getting books for 
herself, and studying them to the accompaniment of bub- 
bling stream and rushing waterfall, and the melodious 
clang and tinkle of goat and cow bells. Such a life, she 
felt sure, would satisfy her for a long time : peace and soli- 
tude, the sweet breath of the mountains, the sense of a 
wide world awaiting her beyond. Elisabeth imposed no 
delusion on herself here ; something, not a little, of the 
self-sufficing spirit of the student and the dreamer was 
hers. The sunset and the sunrise, the moon and stars, the 
immensity of the heavens, the far horizons of the world 
seen from some narrow student’s chamber, all that still 
lingered in her mind as an ideal of life. Another ideal 
she had also had, that lay now as a beggar’s garment, rent 
and tattered and discredited, to be wept over and shud- 
dered at. But clad in the royal raiment of her dreams, 
Elisabeth could still believe at times that all the sadness, 
all the dismal failures of these later years, were but acci- 
dents, the wretched sport of fate ; not, in one shape or an- 
other among the constant conditions of human life. Her 
mind wavered to and fro, now in restless desire to stretch 
her strong young wings and soar away, now in sadder 
longing to heal that outraged past among the voices and 
silences of the mountains. But the dull document pre- 
sented to her by her landlady bore no relation at all to 
either soaring or repose. Elisabeth studied the bill, then 
ran away to get her purse and pay it. She had paid noth- 
ing since she arrived, and it occurred to her all at once 
that her landlady might perhaps think she had no money. 
Then she went up-stairs and studied the bill again. It was 


39 ^ 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


moderate enough. They were not grasping people, and 
the season was hardly yet begun ; but to Elisabeth, accus- 
tomed to her husband’s estimate of things, and unused 
to living at an hotel, it appeared sufficiently formidable. 
Even in a green seclusion one could not live without eat- 
ing and drinking ; nor eat and drink, it would appear, 
without a considerable bill. Clearly a green seclusion was 
not eternally feasible ; and Elisabeth had no sooner come 
to this conclusion than her mind with an eager rebound 
lost itself in schemes of action. She would not die yet — 
not yet, she thought, even in name — that project was re- 
jected, or, at least, postponed ; but the plan she had first 
formed at Venice took more definite shape. She would go 
to some city — to Dresden, she thought — and live by giving 
lessons. A very small beginning would content her ; she 
could live so cheaply and simply, and she never doubted 
that she would be able to get on. She hardly knew why 
she fixed on Dresden, except that it was distant, and that 
the name carried with it a certain charm. Elisabeth was 
aware, of course, that she had three hundred a year of her 
own ; but that fact never entered into her calculations for 
a single moment. It was her husband’s money now, not 
hers, so she had come to understand. If it had been other- 
wise, she would never have put in a claim for it. No ; to 
earn her own living was her idea. She felt sure that she 
could do it. She knew that she could live economically ; 
she had had no lack of experience in that direction ! Yes, 
she would go to Dresden ; but before going to Dresden 
she would go to Schlossberg. 

Schlossberg had been in her mind ever since she left 
Venice, but she could not venture there before. Emilia 
might be there, and Gordon Temple. (Elisabeth knew no 
sharper pang than when those names came into her mind ; 
she could not think of Emilia ; she turned away her 
thoughts from Gordon Temple.) But now that more than 
three weeks had elapsed — how strange an eternity it 
seemed to Elisabeth ! — they would certainly have gone to 
Venice. Frau Werner, too, would not yet have returned ; 
she might wander through the town and meet not one 
familiar face. An irresistible longing drew her to the 
place where she had spent the only happy months her 
lonely girlhood had known. She could go now ; she might 
never be able to go again. If she were, indeed, to sever 
herself utterly from the past, she must at least bid farewell 
to the place which had made itself dearer to her than any 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


397 


other in the world. Certain fragments of her past had 
strange value for Elisabeth — unthought-of moments, places 
here and there that she had hung and tapestried, as it 
were, with dreams and emotions, though they were no 
more considerable, to take an example, than an ill-fur- 
nished attic with sloping walls. And what place had she 
hung and tapestried like Schlossberg ? 

Schlossberg drew her irresistibly. A day and a night she 
would spend there, then pass into the vast unknown. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

SCHLOSSBERG AGAIN. 

It was in the early morning (she had travelled all night) 
tliat Elisabeth found herself alighting at the Schlossb^erg 
station. She had alighted there but once before, on that 
moonlit night of her first arrival nearly four years ago. 
She had been seventeen then, she was one-and-twenty 
now; and the long intricate years spun by youth, so dif- 
ferent from the tattered fragments that slip and fly from 
older and feebler hands — tlnit long web of years, I say, 
held the history of her married life. No need of further 
words to express the strange remoteness of that distant 
night when she had wandered in lonely ecstasy through 
the magic of an enchanted hour, from this present morn- 
ing in July that saw her there again. It had rained dur- 
ing the night ; and though the rain had almost ceased 
now, a gray layer of clouds overspread the sky. Moist 
odors rose from the garden planted outside the railway- 
station ; the branches of the trees dripped in the gray air 
on to the walks below. Elisabeth took a carriage and 
drove to the Kaiserhof ; she knew, indeed, of no other 
hotel to go to ; that and the Pension Werner comprised 
all her practical acquaintance with the hostelries of 
Schlossberg. 

A not unnatural chance led her to the same little room 
she had occupied before, a room reserved for such stray wan- 
derers as herself. The place lay spread before her, with 
the women clanking to and fro across the wet paving- 
stones to the fountain in the centre ; the mist lay low upon 
the wooded hills beyond. Elisabeth ordered some break- 
fast to be brought to her in her room ; she had no courage 


39 ^ 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


to go down to the big dining-room, to occupy its length 
alone ; she had an odd feeling, besides, that she might see 
the Baroness come in through the open window, followed by 
Emilia with little Ida dragging at her skirt — she remem- 
bered it all so well, Emilia and the sunny terrace, and 
herself in her little brown schoolgirl frock, waiting for her 
coffee and reading her story-book the while. The frock 
she had on now was gray instead of brown ; there was not 
much difference otherwise ; and there was no sunshine to- 
day. Elisabeth took off her hat ; presently her breakfast 
came, and afterward she sat for a long time leaning back 
in one of the velvet armchairs, looking now' at the room, now 
at the sky outside. The narrow room with its velvet and its 
gilt clock, its wax candles and its shining parquet, seemed 
to her quite as splendid as before. She was afraid she might 
have to pay a great deal for it ; that w'as a consideration 
that occupied her thoughts in these days. She wdshed she 
could have gone to her old room in the Pension Werner ; 
she would have felt more at home there ; but that, of 
course, was impossible. Already a profound depression 
began to settle down upon her ; this was not what she had 
come to Schlossberg to find. It was her old self, it was 
the irrecoverable past, she had hoped to meet ; and this 
was not the past. That had lived in her memory and her 
dreams ; but here she could only sit and measure the dis- 
tance that separated her from it all. A profound depres- 
sion settled down upon her, and a profounder sense of 
disappointment. She had meant to do so much, she had 
meant to be so good. She recalled her vision — it came 
back to her so clearly here, that vision — of scaling that 
difficult path of goodness step by step, with her husband 
before her to hold her by the hand, till the very gates of 
heaven should open to her gaze as she had imagined them 
open to him and he standing in the glow. Alas ! that 
divine glow had passed into darkness ; and she herself, 
with feet slipping and stumbling in hidden and unaccus- 
tomed ways, felt hardly a stepping-stone left to give her 
footing, much less a heaven-ascending ladder trod by an- 
gels. For where, after all, had she been right — where had 
she been wrong ? 

The problem is a common one to such natures as Elisa- 
beth’s, where a strong individuality is forever in revolt 
against a scarcely less strong instinct of submission, and 
experience has not yet adjusted their sev^eral claims ; but 
she did not know that. She contemplated her life and 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


399 


thought it singular ; and it weighed upon her with that 
darkness of fatality that attends a sense of isolation. She 
started up at last, and put on her hat quickly. She had 
come to perform a pilgrimage, to visit the empty shrines 
of vanished joys, with the vague hope of finding at least 
some lingeringglow and fragrance shaken from tlie raiment 
of the departed gods. The hope was fallen dead enough 
already ; but she would still perform her pilgrimage. She 
put on her hat, pulling her veil down over her face. It 
was a gray gauze veil that she had got for travelling, and 
thick enough, she felt sure, to conceal her identity from 
any chance acquaintance she might meet — any old class- 
mate or professor — should any such still remember her. 
She ran down-stairs and out into the familiar streets. Fa- 
miliar, indeed ! The very voices of the people, the ring of 
their steps on the cobble-stone pavement, the names 
above the shop-fronts, the clang of bells overhead, the 
children playing with the little streams of water that ran 
along the gutters after the heavy rain — not one of these 
things but spoke to Elisabeth, pierced her with vain long- 
ings after those lost days, that irrecoverable past. She 
stood presently before the Pension Werner. The sitting- 
room window was open ; there was the sound of a jing- 
ling piano, a shrill voice running up the scale ; the street- 
door was flung back ; two children, with satchels on their 
arms, came hopping down the steps ; then a young girl 
in a gray waterproof cloak (it might have been Elisabeth's 
self in those old days), who opened her umbrella, turned 
her face up to the sky, then closed it again, and picking 
her steps, made her way up the street. Elisabeth walked 
quickly away ; she felt an outcast, a wanderer ; a terrible 
sense came over her of what she had done in cutting her- 
self adrift from all the wonted familiarities of life, and a 
yearning she did not know how to stifle for the friends 
whom she had loved and who had loved her. She walked 
on quickly ; her feet would have taken her almost with- 
out conscious volition, they moved so readily in the di- 
rection of Madame von Waldorf’s house. How often she 
had thought of it, that charming, cheerful, friendly house ; 
and there it was. There was no open door or window 
here ; it was all shuttered, blank and deserted — but that 
she had expected ; it would have been a shock to her to 
find it otherwise. And yet it struck her sadly. She turned 
away in a moment, and went down the lane that ran by 
the side of the house. There was a garden-door there that 


400 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


often stood unlocked, the gardener living in a cottage 
close by ; she would like to see the garden again, Elisa- 
beth thought. The front of the house was like death ; 
one felt that death had lately passed there. She would 
so willingly carry away with her into exile some brighter 
memory. 

The door was on the latch, as she had hoped, and pass- 
ing in, she wandered down the gravel paths. All was 
clear and tranquil here ; the garden was blooming with 
roses, red and white and fragrant under the gray sky ; 
their scent mingled with the wholesome odors of fresh- 
stirred earth and wet turf. The birds twittered and flew 
in and out of the shrubs and trees ; a little pond lay clear 
and quivering in its shallow basin, where Ida’s gold-fish 
were darting to and fro. A sunbeam, piercing the clouds, 
shone reflected in one or two unshuttered windows on 
this side of the house ; but the terrace-doors leading into 
Emilia’s drawing-room were closed, and no one seemed 
stirring but a gardener and his boy, working at some lit- 
tle distance with their backs turned toward Elisabeth. 
She paused on the edge of the pond, afraid to venture 
further, and stood looking up and down at the familiar 
scene. She was glad — yes, she was glad to have seen it 
all again ; but a sadness weighed on her heart like lead ; 
and in a moment she turned away, afraid that one of the 
servants left in charge of the house might see and recog- 
nize her, and made her way back toward the door by 
which she had entered. The path led by the Baroness’s 
little garden-house. The door was unlocked here also ; it 
was never locked ; it was not supposed that any robber 
would care to come in and carry off one of the Baroness’s 
works of art, and in the Baroness’s absence the gardener 
had a habit of desecrating the place with his wheel-barrow 
and spade. The door stood ajar now ; Elisabeth pushed 
It open and went in. 

In a moment she wished she had not ; it all looked so 
dreary. Dead leaves had drifted on to the floor ; the 
laurel-wreaths that the Baroness’s sentiment had placed 
here and there hung forlorn and withered. Emilia, in 
fact, cared little for the place, which she had the habit of 
laughing at as her aunt Irma’s Folly, and rarely entered 
it from one year’s end to another. To Elisabeth it seemed 
peopled by ghosts, arranged in symmetrical order on 
shelves. She caught sight of her own charming head, and 
went up to look at it. She had not thought it like herself 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


401 


when it was done, three or four years ago ; she had been 
used to contemplate it with a shy wish that she were as 
pretty as that ; but looking at it now, she saw that it really 
did resemble her. As the Baroness had foreseen, she had 
grown into the likeness. But it detained her attention for 
a moment only ; her glance fell on her husband’s bust 
placed beside it. Changed as he was, how like it was to 
him still — how like ! As if it had been yesterday, Elisabeth 
recalled some words she had spoken on the occasion of 
her first visit to the garden-house. Alas, alas ! She 
turned and hurried from the place. 

She looked at her watch when she was outside in the lane 
again, and at the same time a church clock overhead struck 
eleven. It was still early. Elisabeth, in arranging her 
plans beforehand, had resolved to spend the day at Schloss- 
berg and to sleep there. A day had seemed only too short 
to count over the memories of six eventful months. But 
the shrines where she had thought to tell her beads 
showed so far little better than graves, where nothing 
stirred but her own poignant consciousness. Why had she 
come ? she said to herself. It had been a mistake. To 
revive vain longings, to weep futile tears over a past that 
was dead, was an employment for fools ; it weakened her 
resolution ; it made her afraid of life. She would go away 
at once. When Schlossberg was behind her she would try 
to forget, Elisabeth said to herself, wrung to her very 
soul ; she would find again the sense of freedom, the eager 
power that had animated her in her little Tyrolese inn. 
But before leaving Schlossberg there was one thing that 
she still greatly cared to do — to go to the terrace of the old 
Schloss and look at the far historic view, the same that she 
had loved from her attic window. There was time for 
that before the afternoon train that she would take ; and 
better that than to pass the hours in her narrow velvet and 
gilded room. Before the vast expanse of plain and moun- 
tain that she loved, her bruised fancy might find wings 
again ; she would feel stronger, not weaker, to go on. 
The brightening day encouraged her, the breaking clouds, 
the sun that shone more fully every moment. She walked 
on rapidly with her swift young steps, through the streets, 
up the steep windings of the road that climbed the hill. 

She stood leaning on the stone parapet of the terrace, 
gazing on the immense plain shining and shadowed in 
fleeting sunshine, on the winding river, on the blue of the 
distant mountains clear against a space of clear blue sky, 
26 


402 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


beneath ranges of broken and rolling clouds. Her mind 
sprang to meet it. Yes, it was all as beautiful as she had 
remembered it. This was the right place in which to part 
with Schlossberg ; the future opened again ; here she 
could bid farewell to her past life. She stood gazing at 
the view for a long time ; it seemed probable to her that 
she would never see it again ; she had looked her last on 
Schlossberg, she felt, for years and years to come, at any 
rate. She turned at last, at the sound of an approaching 
footstep, that warned her she was no longer alone (the 
terrace had been empty until now) ; and as she turned, she 
came face to face with Gordon Temple. It was the most 
natural thing in the world he should be there ; he had sim- 
ply postponed his departure from Schlossberg. But Elisa- 
beth, cruelly startled, checked her first movement to go, 
and stood staring at him without the presence of mind to 
pass him — if, indeed, she wished to pass him — as though 
they had been strangers. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

ELISABETH RECEIVES NEWS. 

He recognized her instantly, and Elisabeth, perceiving 
that it was so, put up her veil. They looked at each other 
strangely. He turned rather pale, and grasped the hand 
she held out. 

I had no idea, Mrs. Holland, that you were here,” he 
said. 

‘‘I arrived this morning,” she answered, faltering a little. 
Then, after a pause : “ I thought you were in Venice.” 

“ I was — I mean, I intended to be there by this time,” 
Gordon answered ; ‘‘but I have been detained in Schloss- 
berg. There has been a good deal to see to.” 

Elisabeth stood silent for a minute. “ You have been in 
trouble since I saw you,” she said at last, timidly. “ I 
have been very sorry for you.” 

“ I have been in trouble ? You mean about my father ? 
Yes, I knew you would be sorry. It was a great blow to 
me. But he was very old, and the end was peaceful.” 

He looked away from her as he spoke, and stood resting 
his folded arms on the top of the parapet. An extraor- 
dinary embarrassment fell between them. Elisabeth did 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


403 


not know what to think or what to say. This was what 
she had dreaded, to meet someone she knew ; and yet she 
had a sense of relief. The confidence with which Gordon 
always inspired her did not fail her now. She felt sure 
that, if she were to ask him, he would say nothing about 
having met her ; and after these last forlorn hours there 
was no doubt it was a relief. Only that made no differ- 
ence, she would still have to go away ; nothing could 
change that. It was Gordon who first spoke again. 

‘‘Mrs. Holland,*’ he said, “forgive my asking, but does 
no one in Venice know that you are here ? ” 

“ No one,” said Elisabeth, faltering again. 

“ You know — no, I suppose you don’t know — that Emilia 
is there ? She arrived the morning after you left ; and the 
Baroness has been there for tlie last fortnight.” 

“ No, I did not know,” said Elisabeth, quivering a little 
with a wretched sensation. These familiar names raised 
a tumult in her mind. 

“ I am thankful — I thank heaven I have met you ! ” said 
Gordon, facing round upon her. “ We have been in 
terrible anxiety about you.” 

The color rushed painfully to Elisabeth’s face. It was 
the first touch of reality she had met from the outer world. 

“Oh, I had to go — I had to go ! ” she cried, involuntarily. 

“ I know — I know,” said Gordon, abruptly, turning away 
again. “Of course I understood. I understood.” 

Elisabeth was silent for a minute ; a hundred things 
to say presented themselves at once. The particular con- 
fidence she had in Gordon, an immediate sense too, per- 
haps, of being set on her trial, as it were, urged her from 
her usual reticence. 

“You mean ” she began, and paused; then 

changed her sentence. “ I knew I could not explain,” she 
said at last, with an effort. “ Of course I have thought a 
great deal about what my husband would feel. That has 
made me very unhappy ; but I couldn’t help it. I thought 
— I think still — it might be better that everyone should 
believe me dead. It would make everything simpler, if I 
could only disappear altogether.” 

“ How can you think or say such things ? ” said Gordon, 
with a sort of angry agitation. He recovered himself 
immediately. “ I said that I understood,” he went on ; 
“but I do not. 1 don’t understand why, with devoted 
friends such as you have, ready to sympathize with any — 
any trouble you maybe in, you should think any extreme 


404 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


step necessary. The first thing the Baroness said — you 
must know it was the first thing she would say — was, 
‘ Why did she not come to me ? ' ” 

I did think of it/’ cried Elisabeth. Gordon, unwit- 
tingly, had checked her first impulse to confidence. She 
felt put upon her defence. “ I cannot explain everything,” 
she said more calmly ; “ and it would be no good if I could. 
But I thought of everything over and over again. I didn’t 
wish my husband to know where I was, and if I had gone 
to Vienna he must have known. And then I wanted — I 
had to be free ; and that would leave him free also. I 
have not been able to make him happy ” 

^Wou have not made him happy — good Lord ! ” said Gor- 
don. ‘‘And as if that, after all, were the point.” 

“ It is the point, of course,” said Elisabeth, simply 
enough. “If I could have made him happy, the rest 
wouldn’t have signified so much. And I meant to — I meant 

to ” The tears rushed to her eyes ; then, terrified at 

Gordon’s silence, “You don’t think,” she cried, “that I 
ought to go back ? ” 

Could Gordon have followed the impulse of the moment, 
he might have told that she should never go back — that 
the devotion of a life was at lier service, to use or to abuse 
as she pleased. She appeared to him divinely simple as she 
stood and talked about her husband after going through, 
he felt sure, a furnace of moral suffering before she could 
act as she had done. Happily, an habitually sane man is 
not left an altogether helpless victim to an insane impulse. 
What his face expressed, indeed, he could not tell ; but he 
saw a startled look come into Elisabeth’s eyes, and she 
drew back a step. He turned abruptly on his heel, and 
walked away to the end of the terrace. He had, in fact, 
that to tell her that should make the repression of any mo- 
mentary impulse easy. He would not have told her if he 
could have helped it — it could only give her pain she ought 
to be spared, he said to himself ; but he felt she might 
make it, and justly, an eternal reproach to him if he did 
not. In a minute he came back. Elisabeth was standing 
as he had left her, her arms dropped at her side ; but she 
held out her hand as he approached. 

“ I must go,” she said. “ Good-by.” 

“ No ; wait one moment,” he said, rather hoarsely. “You 
have heard nothing, of course,” he went on hurriedly, 
“ from Venice since you left ?” 

“ No, nothing,” she said, letting her hand fall again, and 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


405 


taking alarm from bis voice and look. *^Oh, has anything 
happened? What has happened ?” 

“ No, no," he said, quickly, “ nothing has happened ; but 
you cannot — of course, you cannot — have heard that your 
husband is very ill ?" 

“ Worse ?” she said, with dilating eyes. 

‘Yes — I am afraid he is worse." 

There was a minute’s silence. “Will you tell me ex- 
actly ? " said Elisabeth, coming a step nearer, and laying 
one hand on the stone parapet ; “ I left him much better ; 
I had never, since we married, known him so well. I 
couldn’t have left him otherwise." 

“No, no; that of course," he said, turning round now, 
and speaking with an air of extreme consideration and 
gentleness ; “ but I believe, I had better explain, as you 
request me, how matters are. I thought, at the time I was 
in Venice, that you were a little too hopeful about Robert, 
that he was not gaining ground as much as you thought ; 
and what has happened since has shown that I was unluck- 
ily right. The doctors should have been franker, with you, 
at any rate, than I imagine to have been the case. As re- 
gards Robert, they may have seen reason to be reticent, 
and no doubt they wished to spare you anxiety ; but frank- 
ness is always best. Your husband is worse, Mrs. Hol- 
land. There was always a danger of his breaking down ; I 
mean, it must have come sooner or later : no human power 
could have prevented it in his state of health, and it has 
come now>" 

“When ?" said Elisabeth. “ I know nothing," she went 
on hurriedly, “ of what happened after I left Venice. I 
ought to know ; tell me everything ! " 

Gordon hesitated a moment. 

“What I know," he said, “I have heard from Emilia. 
She wrote me such details as she had learned from your 
old servant. Robert excited himself a good deal to begin 
with, it appears, about some money that he missed. I 
don’t know what it was. He sent Maddalena to you to 
fetch it ; but you were already gone ; and later in the even- 
ing he got your note. Miss Fawcett was with him at the 
time. I don’t know what passed, of course ; but I gather 
that she didn’t act altogether wisely. After a time she 
called Maddalena — But all this is odious," said Gordon, 
breaking off; “no need for me to go through all that. 
Maddalena went in to your husband the last thing at 
night ; and when she took him his breakfast the next morn- 


4o6 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


ing he seemed much the same as usual. But an hour or 
two later, when she went to him again, she found him al- 
most unconscious in an attack of faintness and exhaustion. 
She ran at once for a doctor ; fortunately, he has turned out 
an excellent one. Your husband is thoroughly well cared 
for; he has a nurse and Emilia arrived the morning he 
was taken ill. She is in the house with him ; Miss Faw- 
cett left the same day to join some friends at Milan. 
He rallied from the first attack, he even left his bed for 
two days ; but about a week ago he had a second attack, 
and seems unhappily to have no great rallying power left.” 
Gordon stopped, and was silent for a minute ; he had 
spoken throughout with hesitation, in short detached 
phrases. Elisabeth stood pale and motionless, except for 
a nervous movement of her fingers on the parapet beside 
her. ^Ht is horrible — it is horrible forme to have to tell 
you all this,” Gordon resumed. I believe I ought not 
to have told you.” 

She raised her eyes to his face, then looked away from 
him at the plain and the hills, and back in his face again. 
There was a miserable despair in her eyes. She did not 
speak, but in a moment began slowly drawing on a glove 
she had taken off, and turned away. Gordon follow'ed her 
as she moved across the terrace, and began to descend the 
hill, with steps that quickened to haste as she approached 
the town. As they passed through the city gate into the 
street leading to the Place and the hotel, Gordon spoke to 
her again : 

^‘What can I do for you, Mrs. Holland ?” he said. “ Tell 
me what I can do.” 

She stood still for a moment. Oh,” she cried, I want 
nothing but to start this minute for Venice ! ” and hurried 
on as before. 

In the early morning of the second day following she 
found herself in Venice. A telegram from Gordon Temple 
had preceded her ; and as she stepped from the railway- 
carriage she was received in Madame von Leuwine’s 
arms. 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABE2H. 


407 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

IN CASA HOLLAND. 

Elisabeth did not find her husband in the room where 
she had left him ; in these last weeks the summer heat had 
set in, and he had been removed to one of the silent and 
sunless apartments at the back. The front rooms were all 
closed and shuttered ; and the. twilight, the white folded 
beds in the gloom, the furniture ranged stiffly against the 
wall, struck Elisabeth chilly, with a chill as of death. All her 
own things had disappeared ; it was as if she herself had 
died ; her wardrobe was empty ; not a book, not a ribbon, 
belonging to her, was to be seen. It was by her husband’s 
orders that they had been swept away. Clear away all 
that ; let me never see one of those things again,” was al- 
most the first order he had given, in an accent so peremp- 
tory that the order was obeyed at once, and Elisabeth’s pos- 
sessions packed away by the women about him, in the trunk 
she had left behind. A strange consternation had succeed- 
ed her fliglit. It seemed almost incredible at first to the 
three people wlio learned it on tliat fatal evening. Elisa- 
beth had by no means over-estimated — it might have been 
hard for her to estimate even — her husband’s resentment 
on tlie discovery of Mr. Brudenel’s letter. She had, in fact, 
created an almost impossible situation, difficult for any 
man to meet, and for no man more difficult than for Mr. 
Holland. His attitude toward his wife had always been 
one of overwhelming superiority as toward her childish 
ignorance and faultiness ; it was an attitude that had ac- 
quired rigidity through his uneasy consciousness of a grow- 
ing habit of criticism on her part ; but to stand before her 
at a confessed disadvantage was a position that had lain ab- 
solutely outside his powers of imagination. He stood, in- 
deed, at far less disadvantage than he imagined ; there had 
been a dignity in the words with which he met that accusa- 
tion from the past which reconciled Elisabeth to him, as we 
have seen, so far as that was concerned ; but that he did 
not know. His acquaintance with his wife, after three 
years of marriage, was still sufficiently superficial in certain 
directions ; and it was, perhaps, inevitable that she should 
appear to him in the intolerable light of an accuser. To 
treat her as the criminal, to throw a coldness and severity 


4 o 8 the fail c/EE OF ELISABETH 

into his manner for the future that should compel silence 
and submission, was the only issue from an untenable posi- 
tion that occurred to him. 

He tore the note through that Maddalena brought to 
him ; he returned the bank-notes. He would demand the 
money as a right, not accept it as a gift and trivial peace- 
otfering. Only presently, seated in his armchair, partially 
soothed by the monotony of Dulcie’s voice as she read 
aloud to him the newspaper, of which he did not hear a 
word, his mind recurred to the money as something pleas- 
ant to dwell upon in that afternoon's painful work. He 
wished now that he had kept it ; he would like to know 
that it was safely locked away in his bureau. It was a 
sum that represented the savings and scrapings of many 
months, and Elisabeth was always so lamentably heedless. 
When old Maddalena brought in the tea, he desired her to 
summon Elisabeth, with the result we know; and presently, 
Elisabeth not returning, he went himself to make a search 
in her room. To lock up her private drawers and boxes 
was a habit he had never been able to enforce on his wife; 
she was incorrigible in her confidence in otlier people’s 
honesty, and to-day, as usual, he found everything open. 
But the money, safe in Elisabeth’s travelling-purse, and 
well on its way to Munich, was naturally not to be found. 
Mr. Holland opened drawer after drawer with increasing 
uneasiness and irritation. Elisabeth might as likely as not 
— she was so criminally heedless — have left the bank-notes 
on the table ; and who was to guarantee the old Italian 
woman’s honesty ? They might be in her pocket that 
moment. As Mr. Holland, however, could not actually 
prosecute his researches so far as Maddalena’s pockets, he 
returned with his slow steps to the sitting-room to await 
his wife’s return. When the dinner-hour approached and 
passed and she did not appear, he began to find her ab- 
sence inexplicable. Miss Fawcett exhausted herself in 
ejaculations and surmises. 

‘Hf Mr. Temple were in Venice,” she said, presently, 
‘‘one might almost think that Mrs. Holland had met him 
and gone with him in his gondola. They used to take such 
very long rows together.” 

“We will at least not wait dinner,” said Mr. Holland, 
with severity, and taking no notice of this ingenious sup- 
position. “ Oblige me, my dear, by telling Maddalena to 
serve it. I cannot always make her understand me.” 

Miss Fawcett made no more open suggestions ; but 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


409 


nothing being, as a fact, more richly suggestive to the hu- 
man fancy than an unexpected absence — still more, an 
unexpected return delayed — both she and Mr. Holland al- 
lowed the widest range to their imagination in the succeed- 
ing hours. Mr. Holland, conscious of unusual, if deserv- 
ed, harshness toward his wife, felt increasing anxiety as 
the evening went on. He had desired Elisabeth to go, and 
she was gone ; and now he thought of flight with that 
hundred pounds in her pocket, now of an easy plunge into 
one of the dark waterways about them, or of a boat upset, 
and a body dragged ashore. It passed through his mind 
then, what it would be to live without his wife ; he strained 
his ear for the sound of the door-bell; had Elisabeth ap- 
peared at that moment, he might have welcomed her, in 
his relief, with pardon. And then there was the money. 
His mind slipped from that sterner thought of loneliness — 
after all, that was a fancy, his wife would never really 
dare to leave him — to that problem of the money. Where 
could she have put it ? My dear,” he said in the course 
of the evening, to Dulcie, ‘‘oblige me by going to Elisa- 
beth’s room, and seeing whether she has left an envelope, 
with some money in it, lying anywhere about. It ought 
to be locked up. Perhaps it has fallen down somewhere ; 
your eyes are sharper than mine.” He longed for the 
money; he could have shed tears of rage at his own folly. 
Twice that day it had lain within his grasp, and he had let 
it go. Dulcie, her curiosity agreeably quickened, went on 
her fruitless errand. Her imagination had passed through 
a lighter range of fancy. Fed by crude French novels, it 
flew off in the direction of Gordon Temple. She had been 
shrewd enough to perceive that he admired Elisabeth ; 
what could be easier to an agile imagination, fed by crude 
French novels, than to believe Elisabeth was in love with 
him ? It required but another step to conceive a guilty and 
romantic flight on her side to join him. Dulcie did not ab- 
solutely believe this, any more than Mr. Holland believed 
that his wife had thrown herself into a canal ; but, after 
all, one supposition was as good as, and on the whole more 
amusing than, another. 

Later in the evening, Elisabeth’s letter, posted on her 
way to the station arrived. Maddalena brought it in, and 
stood lingering in the doorway, rubbing her old hands on 
her apron with a prevision that it concerned her young 
mistress. Mr. Holland took the note, saw that it had 
passed through the post, and opened it with a trembling 


410 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


agitation altogether removed from his usual deliberate ac- 
tion. He read the letter through, crushed it up, and raised 
himself in his chair, a hand on either arm, gazing before 
him, as though in act to rise and go he knew not whither. 
His silence, his pallor, his fixed gaze and heavy frown, 
alarmed Dulcie. 

“ What is it ? what has happened ? ” she cried. Has 
anything happened ? Is it about Elisabeth ? ” 

He turned his head and looked at her a moment. 

“My dear,’' he said, “you have mentioned a name I 
never desire to hear again. My wife has left my house ; 
oblige me by silence on that point henceforward and al- 
ways.” 

“Oh ! ” cried Dulcie, “do you mean that Mrs. Holland 
has really — really — is it Mr. Temple ? ” 

“ What ? Damnation ! ” shouted the clergyman, start- 
ing to his feet. “ God forgive me ! ” he added immedi- 
ately, sinking into his chair again. “ Excuse me, my 
dear, you are a child ; you don’t know what you are say- 
ing. Oblige me — oblige me by going once more and look- 
ing for that money ; there is nearly a hundred pounds ; it 
is important it should be found. Take Maddalena with 
you.” 

He waved his hand toward the door. He did not really 
suppose the money would be found ; he was convinced 
now that Elisabeth had taken it with her ; but he wanted 
to be alone. All his latent jealousy of Gordon Temple, a 
jealousy fed by uneasy dislike of Gordon himself, burst 
into flame at Dulcie’s words. He attempted no argument, 
he did not wait to reason. His wife had left him, she had 
deserted liim ; she had robbed and betrayed him. He was 
a clergyman and a Christian after his own fashion, but if 
Elisabeth had stood there before him he could have found 
the force to murder her. 

•He had risen and was moving about the room when 
Dulcie returned. He merely nodded in answer to her re- 
port that the money had not been found, and began 
smoothing out Elisabeth’s note, that he might lock it away 
in his desk. Shou Id he ever find his anger growing weaker, 
that would be there to revive it. Then, turning to Dulcie, 
he held out his hand to wish her good-night. “You are a 
good girl, my dear — a good girl,” he said, and went away 
to his room. Before going to bed he looked through all 
Elisabeth’s papers — there were not many — and tore them 
up ; he ransacked her drawers once more, turning out the 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


411 

contents on to the floor. Maddalena found them scattered 
there the next morning. He felt no failure of strength or 
lack of energy then ; but he presently rang, after he was 
in bed, and desired Maddalena to prepare him a sleeping- 
draught. The old woman was clumsy, and he had diffl- 
culty in making her understand what he wanted. He 
missed his wife, his submissive handmaid, his faithful 
nurse, and a flood of weakness and self-pity came over 
him ; he turned his face to the pillow to hide a gush of 
tears. But a deeper, more enduring sentiment of anger 
still sustained him ; only twelve hours later the reaction 
came. 

That this immense mental shock had hastened the end 
could not, perhaps, be disputed ; but that the end had, in 
any case, been within measurable distance, a question of 
months, perhaps even of weeks, could not be doubted, 
either, by anyone who understood the doctor’s report. 
Mr. Holland had been dying for months past, he said ; it 
was one of those lingering cases in which life drags on 
through a remnant of vital energy, that one thing or 
another may quench in a moment. He had an extraordi- 
nary power of living, the doctor added to Madame von 
Waldorf, when for two days her brother rallied and left his 
bed ; but it could not last ; it would have been impossible 
in any case that it should last. This was the view of the 
matter that the Baroness was anxious to impress on Elisa- 
beth. She did not resist it, nor cry out that she had killed 
her husband ; she understood very well at last that the 
question of life and death had long ago ceased to hang in 
the balance ; but that did not in the least lift the darkness 
that weighed upon her. She had meant to be a good wife, 
and she had left her husband to die alone ; that was the 
thought that constantly possessed her ; nothing could alter 
that. Elisabeth was a sufficiently complex person, but 
now her whole being seemed to have passed into one 
emotion. It was as if her conscience had been scorched, 
and gave but one sensation, whatever touched it. She 
said very little, however ; the Baroness asked no ques- 
tions, and Elisabeth made no confidences. Of what use 
were attempts at consolation ? Mr. Holland was dying ; 
there was no more to be said. He lay dying in a silent 
chamber apart, to which his wife was refused admittance. 

Elisabeth never knew all the sources of her husband’s 
anger, but the anger itself could not long be kept from 
her. He was angry with her still ; he had not relented, 


TH^ failure of ELISABETH, 


415 

then, from those last words. That was how she interpreted 
it. And, in fact, in what concerned Gordon Temple, not 
a word then, or later, ever reached her ears. All that first 
day she sat in the darkened rooms in alternate throbs of 
expectation and despair. The sight of the familiar apart- 
ment in such altered aspect, the vacant bedroom, her hus- 
band’s empty chair — these commonplace trappings of 
grief and separation were poignant to her. The windows 
were closed, as well as the shutters, to exclude the heated 
air, and the silence was another element of strangeness. 
The golden radiant view, the cries from the water, the 
splendid vision of light and color that we call Venice, 
might have been swept into another planet, they seemed 
so remote from this still interior. Madame von Waldorf 
came in presently to greet her sister-in-law. Elisabeth 
had not seen her since her marriage ; it was not under cir- 
cumstances such as these they had expected to meet again, 
and few words — words were so impossible — passed between 
them. It was on Emilia that the first shock of these events 
had fallen, when going, on her arrival to Venice, to call at 
the Casa Holland, she found her brother apparently dying, 
and his wife disappeared into space. It was inevitable 
that she should blame Elisabeth severely, for it was im- 
possible for her to conceive an adequate reason for her 
flight, and there was no one at hand to suggest one. 

The story was told her in the first instance by old Mad- 
dalena, who was imperfectly informed ; and of Dulcie, to 
whom Madame von Waldorf took an instantaneous dislike 
— she found that young lady, who passes from these pages 
in the act, packing her boxes to start by the evening train 
for Milan — she made no inquiries whatever. The whole 
remained a mystery to Emilia, the more so that Mr. Hol- 
land, as he acquired consciousness of her presence in the 
house, showed a particular dislike — he was at no trouble 
to conceal it — to having her about him. He hardly ever 
spoke to her; Elisabeth’s name he never mentioned. He 
never even, to her knowledge, alluded to what had hap- 
pened, beyond the one imperative order to take his wife’s 
things out of his sight. One person, indeed, Emilia had 
the impression was more in his confidence, and that was 
Mr. Sparrow. The British chaplain was constant in his 
visits; he was always admitted, by Mr. Holland’s orders ; 
and though he was not always allowed to remain and talk, 
the sick man invariably showed pleasure in seeing him. 
But Mr. Sparrow came and went with an impenetrable air ; 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


413 


and Emilia did not like him sufficiently to attempt to dis- 
cuss her brother’s private affairs with him. She found it 
all dreadfully sad ; slie was separated for the first time 
in her life from her child — she had thought it best to 
leave Ida with her nurse at the hotel — and it seemed 
tragic to her that there should be no news of Elisabeth. 
Severely as she blamed her, this total disappearance of one 
so closely connected with herself weighed upon lier ter- 
ribly. She wrote at once both to the Baroness and to 
Gordon Temple — of the blank dismay produced by her 
letter in the latter case she had no conception — asking ad- 
vice as to what could be done. But what, after all, could 
be done ! Elisabeth had left no clew ; they did not even 
know by what train she had left, in what direction she 
was gone. Emilia felt that, whatever happened, it might 
be hard to forgive her. 

It was a little better after the Baroness arrived. She 
also stayed at the hotel, and could certify that the nurse 
maintained her usual precision of freshness in the matter 
of Ida’s muslin pinafores, and that the child’s dinner was 
served exactly as her mother could wish. Ida had fallen 
in love with her gondolier, she reported, and had a plan 
for building a cottage in the garden at Schlossberg, and 
transporting him and his wife and his gondola and his 
numerous childre-n thither, that he might row her every 
day on the river. Concerning Elisabeth, the Baroness had 
much less to say. The whole matter was a sorrow and an 
anxiety of which she found it hard to speak ; it was an 
especial grief that Elisabeth should not have addressed one 
word to herself. But whenever she did speak of it — the 
subject came up inevitably between her and Emilia every 
day — it was to defend Elisabeth. You are a sensible 
woman, Emilia,” she would say, “very sensible ; and yet 
you declare you can imagine no reason for Elisabeth’s con- 
duct. Do you suppose she ran away without reason, for 
the mere pleasure of the thing ? You don’t? Very well, 
then ; she had some reason that we know nothing about. 
What it was I won’t pretend to say ; but if I were to haz- 
ard a guess that your brother had made her too miserable 
for her to put up with it any longer, I have an idea I should 
not be far wrong.” 

“Dear Aunt Irma,” Emilia replied, “Robert is not a 
brute.” 

“ I don’t say he is ; but that by no means implies he has 
not been brutal to his wife. You are a reasonable person, 


4H 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


Eiiiilia, and I don’r expect you to argue with me that every 
wife is bound to put up with what her husband pleases. 
God knows there are women enough who can do it and 
will do it. I don’t say they are wrong — quite the contrary. 
I know enough about that. Only when you see a child 
like Elisabeth, who was ready to cut her head off to do 
what she thought right, and find she has thrown up every- 
thing, I maintain it was not without reason ; that is all. 
If ever your brother gets better, and I can see and talk 
with him, I will get at the truth of the matter. Mean- 
while, don’t let us say a word more ; it cuts me to the 
heart ! ” 

It was only to be expected, therefore, that the meeting 
between the sisters-in-law should be embarrassed on either 
side. Emilia, however, was in truth too reasonable not to 
adjust the blame with some attempt at equity. It had not 
been all Elisabeth’s fault ; she had never supposed that ; 
and granted that Elisabeth should have endured every- 
thing rather than conduct herself as she had done, she 
was at least suffering cruelly. She kissed her, therefore ; 
coldly at first, more cordially as she felt Elisabeth's cling- 
ing touch in answer ; and sitting down by her on a sofa, 
she took her hand in hers. 

VVe think Robert a little better to-day,” she said, kindly. 

He is very w^'eak, you understand, of course ; but he is 
able to sit up a little in bed, supported by pillows, and the 
change rests him.” 

A longing — a longing such as she had never thought to 
feel again, to go to her husband, to be with him and help 
him, filled Elisabeth’s whole soul. ‘‘Won’t he see me ” 
she said in a voice shaken by anguish. “Mayn’t I go to 
him ? ” 

Madame von Waldorf experienced a momentary embar- 
rassment. “ Robert has not yet been told that you are 
here,” she said at last. “ I see very little of him. That 
is natural ; he is not accustomed to me, and we have never 
been great friends, as you know.” Certainly, Elisabeth 
had reason to know it. “ But he shall be told,” Emilia 
hastened to add. “ Only he is extremely weak ; it is essen- 
tial to avoid agitation.” 

“ Oh, I must go to him — I must ! ” said Elisabeth, start- 
ing up ; but she did not move toward the door. She stood 
still with her hands locked and an expression on her face 
that touched Emilia to a gentler sympathy than she had 
shown yet. 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


415 

Dear Lisa/’ she said, ‘‘ you must have patience. He 
shall be told, he shall ; but he is vexed, you know. That 
is natural ” 

“ Oh, I know ! ” said Elisabeth, dropping into her seat 
again. She urged the point no more. 

It was to Mr. Sparrow, though she did not inform Elis- 
abeth of the fact, that Emilia had determined to commit 
the task of instructing Mr. Holland of his wife’s return. 
She did not like Mr. Sparrow; but in these three weeks, 
in which he had never once failed in liis daily visit to his 
brother clergyman, she had perceived that a strong friend- 
ship existed between the two men, and that the chaplain 
had more influence over her brother than any other person 
who had access to him. She presently left Elisabeth at the 
sound of the suppressed ring at the bell that announced the 
clergyman’s arrival, and went into the anteroom to waylay 
him in his course to the sick-room. In the briefest phrase 
she made known her request. 

‘‘His wife is come back?” said Mr. Sparrow, rubbing 
the hair off his forehead. “ It is very good of you to re- 
ceive her.” 

“That is not the point,” said Madame von Waldorf, 
gently. “ My request, Mr. Sparrow, is simply that you 
would inform my brother of her arrival, and ascertain 
whether he will see her. She is exceedingly anxious to go 
to his room ; but we are afraid of agitating him.” 

“ I’ll tell him, of course,” said Mr. Sparrow ; “ but he’ll 
never see her in the world after the way she’s behaved ; 
that you may take my word for. An ill-conditioned hus- 
sy ! I beg your pardon, ma’am ; but I never see the use 
of mincing matters, and before her husband sees her he 
might be glad to know what she has done with Mr. Tem- 
ple.” 

“ Mr. Temple !” Emilia said, turning pale. “What can 
you mean, Mr. Sparrow ? What has Mr. Temple to do 
with it ? ” 

“ Simply, madam, I understood from that young lady 
who was staying here — a sly girl ; I didn’t like her ; but 
she seemed to know what she was talking about — and as 
poor Holland himself half admitted, his wife ran away 
with a large sum of money to join Mr. Temple. That’s 
all.” 

Emilia was speechless for a moment. “ There is some 
most extraordinary mistake,” she said then with calmness. 
“ You would be doing me the greatest favor, Mr. Sparrow, 


4i6 


TH^ FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


by disabusing my brother’s mind of any such idea. I don’t 
attempt to justify his wife’s conduct, nor do I know what 
reasons she has to offer for its justification ; we have not 
discussed the subject. But one thing is certain : Mr. Tem- 
ple, until three days ago, when he happened to meet Mrs. 
Holland by chance at Schlossberg, had no more knowl- 
edge of where she was than you or I had. He has been 
at Schlossberg for the last month, and my sister-in-law, by 
her own account, has been at the little village of San Bene- 
detto, in the Tyrol. In any case, both the one and the 
other are incapable of the conduct you would attribute to 
them. If you were to question my brother, I am certain 
you would find he has no real grounds for such a belief.” 

I don’t know whether I can question your brother or 
not,” said Mr. Sparrow, bluntly; ‘Mt depends upon how I 
find him. In any case, madam, I should have thought 
you, as his nearest relation, were the proper person to talk 
to him on the subject. You are in and out of his room 
all day, and more concerned in his affairs than anyone 
else.” 

Madame von Waldorf colored a little, but kept her tem- 
per with her usual sweetness. 

‘‘That,” she said, “would be perfectly true under ordi- 
nary circumstances ; but, as I think you must be aware, 
Mr. Sparrow, various causes have combined to keep my 
brother’s life and mine widely apart. An old and intimate 
friend, like yourself, may easily be more in his confidence 
than I am.” 

She moved away as she spoke, and Mr. Sparrow, with a 
half-bow, disappeared on his way to the sick-chamber. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

SOME HOURS OF SUSPENSE. 

Elisabeth was tired out, was exhausted ; but she was 
only induced to go to bed that evening on the most posi- 
tive assurances given that if her husband mentioned her 
name even, she should be called. He knew that she was 
there — so much she had been told; but she also knew 
that he refused to see her. It was after she had left the 
room that Emilia communicated her conversation with 
Mr. Sparrow to the Baroness, who, somewhat to her sur- 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 417 

prise, received the communication in silence. After wait- 
ing a few minutes while Madame von Leuwine continued 
to write a letter on which she was engaged, Emilia looked 
up from her work. 

^‘Well, Aunt Irma,” she said; but, after all, what do 
you think of it ? ” 

I think nothing at all,” replied the Baroness. ‘‘ It is 
a subject that cannot engage my thoughts for a moment. 
I have better occupation for them.” 

‘‘Well, but after all,” began Emilia again, unable to help 
laughing a little, “someone must think about it. Robert 
seems to believe the story implicitly.” 

“Very well,” said the Baroness, “let at engage his 
thoughts then. My dear Emilia,” she continued, laying 
down her pen, “ if a man is such a fool that, after being 
married three years to a woman like Elisabeth, he can 
believe her capable of running off, a propos to nothing, or 
indeed a propos to anything, with a lover, he must be left 
to his folly. Men are fools, of course ; once put some 
idiotic jealous notion well into their heads — and a baby can 
doit — and they become incapable of distinguishing between 
a good woman and a bad one. That is a story as old as 
the hills. As for Robert, I have no patience with him.” 

“ Ah, poor Robert ! you are hard upon him,” said Emilia. 
“You forget how ill he is ; that should excuse a great 
deal. And then, after all,” she added, reasonably, “when 
a man’s wife suddenly disappears, one cannot expect him 
to hold to fine distinctions ; he is likely to believe anything 
and everything.” 

“ Ah, my dear Emilia, that is outrageous — that is un- 
pardonable ! ” cried the Baroness, “when you know there 
is not one word of truth in the story. One would imagine 
you really believed Elisabeth had run away with Gordon.” 

“How can you say so ? ” said Emilia, coloring. “Of 
course, I know the contrary. In the first place, Gor- 
don ” 

“Ah, pardon me, in the first place, Elisabeth,” said the 

Baroness, with some vivacity. “As for Gordon But, 

in the first place, or the second place, I see no motive in 
discussing what is absolutely false. The only thing that 
disturbs me in the matter is that this absurd fiction is 
apparently influencing Robert in regard to Elisabeth. I 
am not hard upon him, heaven knows, not at all — least of 
all now. There is a good deal amiss in him, but it is too 
late now for him to try and mend it ; a man can stand in 
27 


418 THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 

no more pitiful strait than that; and we are all human 
beings together. But if he goes out of this world without 
consenting to see Elisabeth, she will never get over it — 
never. How is he this evening ? ” 

“ I have not seen him yet,” said Emilia, beginning to 
fold up her work. “ I am going now to take the nurse’s 
place. But the doctor told me to-day, quite frankly, that 
it is a wonder to him, each day that he comes, to find him 
still alive. Each day, it seems to him, it can be only a 
question of hours ; he is so terribly weak.” 

Mr. Holland, however, in spite of the doctor, continued 
to live on two or three days more. Elisabeth sat through 
those days in the other part of the house, in a strained 
anguish and expectation. She made no parade of misery, 
indeed ; that was not her way ; she said little, and often 
took up a book and tried to read ; but she could neither 
eat nor sleep ; every time the door opened she started up : 
it might be someone come to summon her. More than 
once, sitting there alone, she fancied she heard the bed- 
room door open — some accident, perhaps, had set it ajar — 
and her husband’s slow step cross the room. She told this 
to the Baroness, and after that her friend left her alone as 
little as possible. Mr. Sparrow came and went ; but Elisa- 
beth hardly ever saw him ; she understood — Emilia had 
explained it to her gently enough — that he, if anyone, was 
the mediator between herself and her husband, and that 
should her presence be desired he would certainly let her 
know; but unsumrnoned, she could not bear to speak to him; 
he had never been her friend. Once or twice she wondered 
dimly whether Mrs. Sparrow and Mary were still in Venice; 
but the thought passed away from her mind almost before 
it arose ; only later she learned that the heat had driven 
them away, and that they had preceded Mr. Sparrow to 
the scene of his summer chaplaincy. On the third day it 
was reported that Mr. Holland was somewhat better and 
stronger than for some time previous. It seemed possible — 
it seemed just possible — he might rally again, as he had 
done before. Mr. Sparrow, who came in as usual in the 
afternoon, stayed a few minutes only with the sick man. 
On coming out he asked for Madame von Waldorf, and 
awaited her in the anteroom. 

‘‘With your permission,” he said, when she came, “I 
shall return this evening and take the night-watch with 
your brother. I want to talk to him, and I have noticed ” 
— he had sat up with him once or twice before — “ that his 


THE FATLURR OF ELISABETH, 


419 


head is always clearer at night. Often in the daytime he 
is too confused or too weak to follow at length anything I 
may have to say. To-day he is better, but 1 don’t want 
to tire him beforehand. 

have taken a liberty,” he went on immediately, with- 
out waiting for Madame von Waldorf’s acquiescence, which 
he took for granted. 

*Wou could not do that, Mr. Sparrow,” said Emilia, with 
some earnestness. Nothing could make her like the man 
— he was invariably rude and overbearing — but she bore 
him a true gratitude for his kindness to her brother. 

“ That is as you take it. Not that it much matters ; one 
does what one thinks right. I wrote to that little Tyrolese 
place where Mrs. Holland said she had been staying, to 
know whether her story was true or not, and told them to 
telegraph an answer back. I find it is true, and I have a 
copy of my letter and the telegram here to show your 
brother. He had taken the idea in his head, and it might 
have been hard to convince him any other way. Holland 
is like that.” 

Emilia was silent for a minute. 

I suppose I ought to thank you, Mr. Sparrow 

she began then. 

“Not at all; it’s not a matter for thanks. Holland is 
dying; he’s going out of the world at enmity with his 
wife — an enmity partly founded on a lie. It is my business 
as a Christian and a brother-clergyman, to expose the lie 
and reconcile him with his wife, if possible. I don’t know 
whether I shall succeed. One may be a Christian and yet 
find it hard to forgive ; but no soul committed to my charge 
shall die in error if I can prevent it.” 

He went away. Emilia felt as if she had been flung 
against a wall and bruised. She caught up Ida, who was 
coming in at the door at that moment in her fresh white 
frock with a bunch of roses in her hand, and kissed her 
passionately. Ida did not like being kissed passionately 
without reason ; only when she hugged her mother after 
she had been naughty. She struggled down again, and 
smoothed out her crumpled frock and frills with dignity. 
Emilia laughed with tears in her eyes, and took her by the 
hand. 

“Come and give these roses to Aunt Lisa,” she said. 
Poor Elisabeth ! living for years among such people ; 
Madame von Waldorf had never so pitied her before. She 
thought she might almost have been tempted to run 


420 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


away herself, if she had had much to do with Mr. Spar- 
row. 

Elisabeth knew that Mr. Sparrow was to spend the night 
with her husband. In one way or another she kept herself 
minutely informed of what went .on in the sick-room, 
though her intimate knowledge of every shade and turn 
in her husband’s illnesses, her memories of hours when 
she had been the nurse he preferred, though his recogni- 
tion of the fact had never come with much grace, made the 
information a torture as exquisite as could be devised. 
To-night she knew that Mr. Sparrow was sitting up with 
him, and the thought that her own fate might be in ques- 
tion (though, indeed, she knew nothing of the clergyman’s 
latest conversation with Emilia) set her in a fever of un- 
rest. She could not go to bed. The Baroness went away 
to her hotel at the usual hour, and she was left with 
Emilia ; but Emilia also, at her urgent request, went to 
her room ; she had sat up all the previous night, and was 
tired out. Elisabeth remained alone in the sitting-room 
that held so many memories for her ; she had kept more 
than one vigil here in the early weeks of their stay in Ven- 
ice, when she had sat up, as it was often her fancy to do, 
till one or two in the morning reading’ or writing, while 
her husband slept quietly in the neighboring apartment. 
It was different now ! The windows stood open to admit 
the cooler air, and Venice, like some princess of legend 
seen only at night, rose mysteriously against a clouded 
sky, with dark waters quivering and shot across here and 
there by long lines of light, or the darting spark of a gon- 
dola. But a gentle rain was falling steadily ; the sounds 
echoing from the water soon died away ; silence settled 
down. Elisabeth drew a chair to the table, and sat with 
her head resting on her hands. She had a book, but she 
could not fix her attention for a moment ; the years of 
her married life from the beginning kept coming and go- 
ing before her like a story. She felt as if in the very be- 
ginning she might have turned to the last page and read 
this end ; and fronting now this final consummation of 
death, she seemed to herself to have been stupidly and 
criminally blind. Now and then she started up . and began 
to pace the room, then sat down as before. The silence 
was hard to bear, and the sense of the vacant rooms be- 
yond, and that other chamber that she might not enter. 
She was waiting she hardly knew for what ; but the terri- 
ble dread that grew from hour to hdsur, that her husband 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


421 


might die without seeing her again, closed upon her more 
and more. Even now — even now she might hear that ii 
was too late, that all was at an end. If he were to die so, 
it would be better, she said to herself, that she should die 
also. Flight would not help her then ; she might fly to 
the ends of the earth, and yet never escape. She might 
live to the utmost limit of man’s existence, and that si- 
lence would never be broken. Only death would be left 
for her to long for. 

In the silence of the night (it was not far from midnight) 
she could hear a distant door open and footsteps cross the 
anteroom, echoing on the carpetless floors. They paused 
a moment, then the door opened and Mr. Sparrow came 
in. Elisabeth sprang to her feet, looking at him with eyes 
strained by expectation and dread. His face was pale and 
fatigued, but she saw immediately that it carried no tid- 
ings of death. He came up to the table and stood with 
his hand resting on it, witliout speaking. She discerned 
a change at once from his usual expression ; some emo- 
tion, more solemn, deeper, perhaps, than he was wont to 
experience, had stirred him. His eyes met hers for a mo- 
ment, but he glanced away instantly. 

“ I want to speak to you for a moment, Mrs. Holland,’' 
he said. He seated himself in an arm-chair as he spoke, 
with an air of fatigue, and Elisabeth dropped again into 
the seat from which she had just risen. Her heart beat pain- 
fully, but she kept an outward appearance of quiet. 

“I can say only a few words,” Mr. Sparrow went on ; 
“your husband is alone, but it is by his desire I came. I 
have been having a long conversation with him to-night ; 
he has been more himself than has been the case for some 
time past. He has spoken to me with great freedom, as 
one erring mortal may well speak to another when he 
stands where we all must stand sooner or later. He has told 
me certain things that have surprised and moved me very 
much — very much indeed.” 

A burning color flew to Elisabeth’s cheeks ; she had the 
conviction, and the conviction was exquisitely painful, that 
her husband had confided to Mr. Sparrow that dim secret 
of the past. But she did not speak, and the clergyman 
went on : ' 

“ As regards yourself, Mrs. Holland, I may say that cer- 
tain-certain misapprehensions existing in your husband’s 
mind concerning you have been removed. I myself may 
have done you some injustice — but that will not greatly con- 


422 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


cern you. Your husband has had reason, in any case, to 
feel the deepest offence at your conduct ; but standing as 
he does within measurable distance of eternity, and feel- 
ing, as all must feel, that he cannot face without reproach 
the Eternal Justice, he desires to forgive as he hopes to be 
forgiven. He has sent me to beg that you will come to 
him.” 

Oh ! ” cried Elisabeth, starting up ; but she trembled 
so that she could not at once move. She stood steadying 
herself against the table for a moment. Mr. Sparrow rose 
also. 

You must be calm,” he said, with more of his usual ab- 
rupt manner; your husband is too feeble to stand any 
nervous or sentimental outbreaks. I cannot permit you 
to go if you cannot command yourself.” 

‘‘ Oh, I can command myself ! ” said Elisabeth. She moved 
away quickly as she spoke. There was a light burning in 
the anteroom ; she took it, and passed through the inter- 
vening rooms to the apartment where her husband was 1}^- 
ing. At the door of the sick-room Mr. Sparrow laid a 
warning hand upon her wrist. 

‘‘No, no,” she said quickly ; “you needn’t be afraid. I 
am used to being with him when he is ill.” 

She pushed the door open and went in. It was a spa- 
cious, lofty room, barely furnished, and dimly lighted by a 
shaded lamp that stood on a table in one corner near the 
low bed on which Mr. Holland was lying with closed eyes ; 
the windows, closely veiled by thin net curtains, stood 
open on to a narrow iron balcony ; outside was the gentle 
drip and patter of the rain. Elisabeth crossed the room 
quietly, and stood by her husband’s side. She could not 
have spoken then ; at the sight of that worn, familiar face, 
she forgot everything but how greatly she had loved him. 
Presently she became aware that he had opened his eyes 
and turned his dim gaze upon her. She knelt down by 
the bed, and taking his hand in hers, pressed her lips to it. 
The hand was not withdrawn, and she knelt on so for a 
long time ; notwithstanding what she had said to Mr. 
Sparrow, she found it hard to maintain her self-control. 
Gradually, however, she forced herself to be calm ; her 
husband was very greatly changed, and one word she must 
utter before it was too late. She waited till she could com- 
mand her voice. 

“ Forgive me, Robert/’ she said then, with along-drawn^ 
quivering breath. 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 423 

He had closed his eyes again, but he turned his head 
slightly at the words, and looked at her. 

“ My dear,” he said, “ all that is at an end. We will say 
no more about it. ... If I ever get stronger again — at 
times I hardly think I shall — we must try to do better.” 

He spoke in short, interrupted phrases, his fingers mov- 
ing rather helplessly as they lay in hers. She took his 
hand in both her own, and mutely laid her cheek and lips 
against it. There was a long silence. Presently Mr. Hol- 
land spoke again. 

“My dear,” he said, cannot talk, but if you would 
read to me I should be glad. The prayer-book is on the 
table there. You know what I prefer to hear. And kindly 
give me a teaspoonful of the cordial, my dear.” 

She did as he desired, and taking the prayer-book, read 
to him, until presently she perceived that he had fallen 
into a doze. But she did not move from her seat beside 
him. She dismissed Mr. Sparrow, who presently came in 
softly to finish his night-watch, and sat almost motionless 
through the succeeding hours. When Emilia came in the 
early morning to take the clergyman’s place she found 
Elisabeth there. 

Later on the nurse came in, but Elisabeth did not leave 
her husband’s side again. His sudden rally the day before 
had only been that flicker of life that so often precedes 
death, and he passed from sleep into a stupor from which 
it became impossible at last to rouse him. He did not 
speak again to his wife or anyone. The same evening 
he died. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

CONCLUSION. 

Mr. sparrow read the service over his friend, who had ex- 
pressed no wish to be buried in England, and was carried 
in a gondola to his last resting-place among the lagoons of 
Venice. Returning after the funeral to the Casa Holland, 
the chaplain presently sought and found Elisabeth in the 
bright little frescoed room at the end of the apartment. 
She had not cared to go there before since her return — 
no place, indeed, could well be more painful to her — and 
she would hardly have gone there UQW, but that the other 


424 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH. 


rooms were, in a sense, occupied. Otto Holland had come 
to his brotlier’s funeral, bringing with him his wife and 
children. He was indiiferent to heat and mosquitoes, and 
proposed spending the summer in Venice ; and although 
his establishment was on the first-floor — he had already en- 
gaged some friends to occupy the upper floor during Au- 
gust and September — his vigorous bearing and the clatter 
of nurses and babies seemed to pervade the whole house. 
Elisabeth had never before met her husband’s half-brother. 
She was grateful to him for his kindness in leaving them 
the use of his rooms ; but his handsome and prosperous 
bearing disconcerted her. Naturally he was indifferent 
enough to his brother Robert’s death ; still more so to his 
brother Robert’s wife. Why should he be otherwise ? Elis- 
abeth retreated to the furthest limit of the apartment, shut- 
ting herself up in the sunny little room she had called her 
own. She looked forlorn enough in her black dress, her 
eyelids reddened by tears. She was passing through the 
darkest strait of her life ; remorse and fruitless yearning 
weighed on her, and the inexorable silence of death. But 
she was not crying when Mr. Sparrow came in ; she was 
looking over and sorting some papers, a desperate sort of 
occupation that seemed to her better than idleness. It 
was her last day in Venice ; on the next, she and the Bar- 
oness, with Madame von Waldorf and Ida, were all to 
return to Schlossberg ; and to Elisabeth it seemed that 
she would be deserting her husband afresh. These last 
terrible days had confused her judgment and confounded 
all her conclusions. She could no longer retrace the 
steps that had led up to her flight ; it stood up before 
her like an isolated crime. Mr. Sparrow sat down opposite 
to her, put his hat under a chair, and began pulling off his 
stiff black gloves. Elisabeth watched him for awhile in 
silence ; she had not seen him alone since her husband’s 
death, and there was something she wanted to say to him. 
She was discouraged, however, by perceiving that he 
showed no signs of the more human temper stirred in him 
by strong emotion on the night that he had come to fetch 
her to her husband’s side. His face had never looked 
more wooden or unresponsive. She bent forward sud- 
denly at last, letting her papers fall to the ground. 

‘‘Mr. Sparrow,” she said, “we are going away to-mor- 
row — you are going too, I think — we shall not meet again, 
I suppose, at present, and I want to thank you. If it had 
not been for you, I might not have seen or been with my 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 


425 


husband at the last, and then I don’t know— -I don’t know 
what I should have done.” 

“ You needn’t thank me,” said Mr. Sparrow, putting his 
gloves into his hat. “ It was on Holland’s account 1 did 
it. I am willing to allow I misjudged you to a certain 
extent ; I told you so before. But you behaved very 
badly to your husband ; he suffered from it a great deal. 
You don’t suppose I hold you free from blame?” 

Elisabeth turned away her head. You can’t blame me 
more than I blame myself,” she said, simply ; “that is why 
it would have been terrible if he would not have seen me.” 

Mr. Sparrow cleared his throat. “Well, well !” he said 
in a somewhat softened tone, “ it was not this that I came 
to speak about, Mrs. Holland ; it was about your husband’s 
will. I told Madame von Waldorf I should communicate 
with you at once on the subject. The will which he made 
at the time of his marriage has not been touched since ; 
everything he should die possessed of was left, as was 
proper, to you, and he appointed me sole executor. Your 
husband, however, as I suppose you know, had not much 
to leave. Your own money was settled on yourself, and 
he had no personal property beyond some old furniture. 
He had saved, however, as I understood him, some seven 
or eight hundred pounds, invested in different securities. 
The point I have to mention is this. In the conversation 
I had with him the night before he died, he intimated that 
he owed a sum of about two hundred pounds to his cousin 
Mr. Gordon Temple. There is some interest also due, I 
believe, at the rate of two and a half per cent., which it 
was agreed upon ; but I’m not certain how much.” 

A sudden flame flew to Elisabeth’s cheeks. “ When — 
when was the debt incurred ? ” she said. 

“The point is immaterial; but it was some years ago, 
when your husband was curate in London. There is no 
mention of it in the will, probably because Holland had 
it always in view to pay it himself ; so I apply to you to 
know your wishes in the matter. I may as well mention 
that your husband expressed a strong wish that the debt 
should be cancelled without further delay.” 

“Oh, let it be paid at once ! ” cried Elisabeth, springing 

up in agitation ; “ I had no idea ” She sat down again, 

covering her face with her hands. Mr. Sparrow took up 
his hat unmoved. 

“ Very well,” he said ; “ shall I write about it to Mr. 
Temple, or will you ? ” 


426 THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH 

Oh, you, please,” said Elisabeth; I couldn’t. And 
at once, please, if it’s not troubling, you too much.” 

‘‘ It’s no trouble at all,” said the clergyman. ‘‘ The money 
can’t be paid yet. There’s no money to pay it with till 
the business of the will has been gone through ; I suppose 
you understand enough about business matters to know 
that. I presume you wish capital and interest both paid ; 
it’s customary, I believe.” He rose to go. I will com- 
municate with you, as may be necessary, concerning the 
rest of the business,” he said ; I shall not see you again 
before I return to Schlossberg in the autumn.” 

Elisabeth held out her hand. He took it not very 
willingly; lie had not shaken hands with her before, since 
her return to Venice. In his heart he resented, hardly less 
than Mr. Holland himself had done, this slip of a girl’s 
knowledge of his friend’s early error. But that could 
never have occurred to Elisabeth. She had for a moment, 
indeed, entertained a somewhat similar resentment' toward 
Mr. Sparrow ; but she had forgotten it in her gratitude 
for the service he had done her. He shook hands coldly 
and reluctantly — that was his way, she thought ; and as 
he left the room the Baroness entered it. Elisabeth went 
up to her, and put her arms around her neck, hiding her 
face on her shoulder. She wished that she need never 
look anyone in the face again. 

Some weeks later, the Baroness wrote to Gordon 
Temple from Schlossberg. “I go to Vienna next week,” 
she said in her letter, ‘‘and Elisabeth goes with me; it 
will be better for her than to remain on here just now. 
But we both return to Emilia for Christmas ; and then per- 
haps, it may turn out, my dear Gordon, that you will meet 
her again. She is better than she was, and she will be 
better still ; but it is useless to hope that she will take any 
fresh outlook on life for months to come. She has been 
torn to pieces, poor child ! and strong as her vitality is, it 
cannot at once recover full vigor. But it is only a ques- 
tion of time. She has an exceedingly just mind, and there 
is no fear whatever that she will spend the rest of her life 
in lamenting over her husband as a lost saint. She knows 
perfectly well, no one better, that he was not a saint at all; 
and when all these cruel memories have had time to 
heal, she will form too just an estimate of his conduct 
and her own not to resume a healthy attitude toward 
the world. She has, at any rate, a great liking for you ; 


THE FAILURE OF ELISABETH, 


4^!7 

a high opinion of you ; so much I have discovered. 
‘ Mr. Temple was very good to my husband,' she 
said the other day ; ‘ I think he must be one of the 
most generous of men.' I would remind you, however — 
lest you should grow too conceited on the strength of this 
opinion — that Elisabeth's imagination is apt to take the 
strangest flights when once it is engaged. What it was 
that engaged it in this instance, I don't know, and she has 
not told me — there are things that she will never tell me 
or anyone — but perhaps you do ; and that being the case, 
she would not, possibly, forgive me for repeating her 
words. However, there they are. Have patience ! She is 
very unhappy, very heart-broken now ; but she is also very 
young. All the possibilities of life — and she is capable of 
appreciating its richest possibilities — are still before her. 
Presently she will recognize the fact ; the past will be 
as though it has never been. . . 

The Baroness, though not unfrequently right in her 
judgments, may be pronounced in this case to have been 
wrong. Elisabeth's nature might readjust itself indeed — 
there could be little doubt about that — and the eagerness 
and wistfulness of her youth return to her. But the past 
could never become to her as though it had never been. 
On the contrary, it would always remain a memory of ex- 
traordinary vividness, in which a tenderness, born of pro- 
found pity toward her husband, would presently leave 
room for little, so far as he was concerned, besides that 
other memory, that she had intended — that would always 
be her point of view — and that she had failed. 

That was not the end of her life, nor of the conclusions 
she was destined to draw from life ; but it was the end of 
the story that had begun for her one August day on board 
the Rhine boat. 


THE END. 







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Generations cf wise fathers and mothers have thor- 
oughly proved the high educational value of the Arabian 
Nights as a book of amusing stories for children. They 
stimulate young minds and create a taste and desire for 
reading at a time when almost all other forms of literature 
would be irksome and uninstructive. 

of }£n0lanb^ By Charles Dickens. 

A New Edition for the use of schools. With numerous 

Illustrations. Printed from large type. 1 vol., 12mo. 

Cloth, black and gold. Oxford Edition, 50 cents. 

Charles Dickens wrote the Child’s History of England 
for his own children, because, as he himself said, he could 
find nothing in the whole line of English histories just 
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read with interest and profit, but not sufficiently advanced 
to take up the great standard authors. It was a labor of 
love, and has been well appreciated by the multitude of 
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history from this delightful little volume. It is written in 
the most pure and simple language, and has for young- 
readers all the picturesque and vivid interest that one of 
the author’s novels possesses for the older ones. All the 
great characters of English history become as familiar and 
produce as permanent impressions, as the heroes of the 
Arabian Nights and of the other favorite books of child- 
hood. It is not only indispensable in every household 
where any care at all is bestowed upon the education of 
children, but it is also one of the best brief and compen- 
dious histories of England for all classes of readers. 


JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, NEW YORK. 


4S, Was Ever Woman in this Humor Wooed. By Chas. Gibbon 30 

49. The Mynns Mystery. By George Manville Fenn 30 

50. Hedri. By Helen Mathers- 30 

51. The Bondman. By Hall Caine 30 

52. A Girl op the People. By L. T. Meade 30 

53. Twenty Novelettes, by Twenty Prominent Novelists 30 

54. A Family Without a Name, By Jules Verne 30 

55. A Sydney Sovereign. By Tasma 30 

56. A March in the Banks. By Jessie Fothergill 30 

57. Our Erring Brother. By F. W. Bobinson 30 

58. Misadventure, By W. E. Norris 30 

59. l^AiN Tales from the Hills- By Budyard Kipling 50 

GO. Dinna Forget. By John Strange Winter 30 

61. CosETTE. By Katharine Macquoid -iO 

62. Master of His Fate. By J . Maclaren Cobban 30 

63. A Very Strange Family. By F. W. Bobinson 30 

64. The Kilburns. By Annie Thomas 30 

65. The Firm op Girdlestone. By A. Conan Doyle 50 

66. In Her Earliest Youth. By Tasma 50 

67. The Lady Egeria. By J. B. Harwood^ 50 

68. A True Friend. By Adeline Sargent 50 

69. The Little Chatelaine. By Tlie Earl of Desart 50 

70. Children op To-Morrow. By William Sharp 30 

71. The Haunted Fountain and Hetty’s Bevenge. By Katharine S. i 

Macquoid 30 

72. A Daughter’s Sacrifice. By F. C. Philips and Percy Fendall 50 

73. Hauntings. By Vernon Lee 50 

74. A Smuggler’s Secret. By hYank Barrett 50 

75. Kestell op Greystone. By Esme Stuart 50 

76. The Talking Image op IJrur. By Franz Hartmann, M.D. 50 

77. A Scarlet Sin. By Florence Marryat .50 

78. By Order op the Czar. By Joseph Hatton 50 

79. The Sin op Joost Avelingh. By Maarten Maartens 50 

80. A Born Coquette. By The Duchess 50 

81. The Burnt Million. By James Payn v 50 

82. A Woman’s Heart. By Mrs. Alexander 50 

83. Syrlin. By Ouida 50 

84. The Bival Princes. By Justin McCarthy and Mrs. C. Praed 5^0 

85. Blindfold. By Florence Marryatt 50 

86. The Parting of the Ways. By Betham Edwards 50 

87. The Failure of Elizabeth. By E. lYances Poynter 50 

i88. Eli’s Children. By George Manville Fenn 50 

89. The Bishop’s Bible. Dv David Christie Murray and Henry Hermann.. 50 

90. April’s Lady. By The Duchess 50 

91. Violet Vyvian, M. F. H. By May Crommelin 50 

92. A Woman op the World. By F. Mabel Bobinson 50 

93. The Baffled Conspirators. ByW.E. Norris 50 

94. Strange Crimes. By William Westall ... .50 

95. Dishonoured. By Theo. Gift 50 

96. The Mystery OP M. Felix. By B. L. Far jeon 50 

97. With Essex in Ireland. By Hon. Emily Lawless 50 

98. Soldiers Three, and Other Stories. By Budyard Kipling 5) 

99. Whose WAS the Hand. By M. E. Braddon 50 

100. The Blind Musician. By Stepniak and William Wesiall 50 

101. The House ( N t ie Scar. By Bertha Thomas 5(j 

102. The Wages op Sin. By Lucas Malet 50 

103. The Phantom BickShaw. By Budyard Kipling 50 

104. The Love OP A Lady. By Annie Thomas 50 

105. How Came He Dead? By J. Fitzgerald Molloy 50 

106. A Bomance OP THE Wire. By Mrs. Betham -Edwards .50 

107. A New Novel. By B. L. Farjeon .50 

108. Notes FROM THE News. By James Payn 50 

109. The Keeper OP THE Keys. By F. W. Bobinson .50 


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